


My Land is Bare

by oneinspats



Series: swimming through fire [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Boromir pOV, Boromir was NOT READY to run across Rohan for A WEEK STRAIGHT, Canon Typical Violence, Dissociation, Eomer is the world's most sarcastic horselord, F/M, Gandalf is Too Tired for this bullshit, Gimli is convinced he's the only one who has his shit together, Grima POV, Grima is a Tiny Snake and resents everyone who calls him this, Harm to Animals, M/M, Pippin would like everyone to know that the salted pork is particularly good, Theoden is #Team Redemption, but mostly off screen, he's not wrong, some psychological abuse (saruman being saruman) - but I put a CW before the chapters, the horn of helm hammerhand will sound in the deep, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 113,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: Boromir has survived Amon Hen, to everyone's great joy. So the Four Hunters (self named) now must journey into Rohan to attempt to rescue their friends. Everything goes a bit pear-shaped from there on in.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, others will be added as needed
Series: swimming through fire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608931
Comments: 533
Kudos: 427





	1. From Emyn Muil to Rohan

**Author's Note:**

> As with the previous instalment - this borrows from books, film and stuff I've made up because what is canon? a fool's game.

It is in dusk’s purple blanket when Boromir stops running. Hands on knees he calls out, ‘I think I see something.’ This brings the other three to a halt. Aragorn is at his side and they’re being strange and shy so not looking at each other. 

Boromir points to a rocky outcrop and upon it, a pile of bodies. The dimming sun leaves enough light that they can see it is orcs, several of which have been beheaded and their heads firmly attached to spikes. 

‘Rohirrim?’ Gimli asks. 

‘We’re too far north,’ Aragorn says. ‘Maybe some people who live in these hills.’ But his doubt is evident. ‘We should take a look. I know it’ll cost us time but the bodies might tell us something.’ 

Boromir met a fox in the dark, once. Luminous eyes reflecting moonlight she panted at him then went, loping on her skinny legs, away into the night. Boromir was on Watch duty for his men, there were no more than ten of them and they were in the hinterlands between Gondor and the vagaries that is the land now owned by Mordor. 

He waited in the still of the night for the fox to lope her way back, past them, to her den. And she did. The thin muzzle of her mouth discoloured from the blood of the marmot clenched in her jaw. The fox paused when she caught sight of him. Sitting so still and patient, where he had been when she first passed by. She looked at him a long steady while, how wild animals can pin a man down with their gaze because they are so full of wilderness and men so empty but wanting of it. Then, content, she continued on her way. 

Boromir told Faramir about the fox when they met up, their two units uniting for a brief interlude before heading back out on thankless patrol. Faramir said, _It is sort of pitiful, how we’ve banished ourselves from the wilderness._ And Boromir replied, _But it’s full of darkness and dark things - I don’t think people are able to survive it._ And Faramir shrugged, _Which of us isn’t full of dark things? Let wilderness be the dark thing we meet in the night. It’s better than the dark things we could meet otherwise._

There is a fox ripping its way through an orc’s stomach. It halts when the four hunters approach then scampers off barking its eerie, high pitched cry. 

The orcs are turned over and inspected. Sword work did in most of them. An axe here and there for the sake of variety. No arrows or spears. Boromir eyes what he can see of the ground which has been trampled but by a great many feet but — no horses. 

‘I suspect there was an internal dispute,’ Aragorn says. He stands with a foot resting against a pile of the dead. ‘These are northern orcs, like our friends from Moria. The Uruks were from the south.’ 

‘I only hope Merry and Pippin weren’t caught in the midst of it,’ Boromir says. He idly kicks a helmet, it rolls across muddied grass and lands against something that catches dimming sun. A soft green, it glints in growing darkness. Walking over Boromir rolls the helmet away to pluck up a brooch. 

A leaf of Lorien. He wears one identical against his throat, holding the elven cloak on. His face falls as he turns to the others, holds up the item. 

‘One of their brooches.’ 

Aragorn approaches so Boromir focuses on the scene they stand in. He looks for any other sign of the halflings as Aragorn takes the brooch for inspection. Their fingers brush. Boromir’s jaw tenses. He curses the fast fading twilight for he cannot make out any signs of Merry or Pippin. 

‘The leaves of Lorien do not easily fall,’ Aragorn says. ‘They may yet be alive.’ 

Boromir tucks chin into chest, pretends to inspect the ground. A hand on his shoulder. ‘Come,’ it’s Aragorn. ‘We should keep going.’ 

Boromir agrees yes, yes they should keep going. They hold each other’s gaze for but a second before Aragorn ducks his head and returns to lead them westward towards Rohan. And beyond Rohan, to Isengard. 

Gimli hefts his axe, ‘When I said _let’s hunt some orc_ this isn’t what I had in mind.’ 

Boromir breathlessly laughs as they run after Aragorn and Legolas. ‘Nor I, when I kept suggesting we take the Gap of Rohan. I imagined a slightly less frantic pace.’ 

They run through the night. Aragorn forever ahead. Boromir thinks he’s memorized the back of the man’s head. And his gate - how he runs, how he walks, how he gracelessly collapses on the ground when exhausted. 

Gods, when he rode north from Minas Tirith he did not think unravelling a riddle would unravel him. 

Morning comes with the soft pinks of the eastern sky behind them. Facing west, towards the Gap of Rohan, the world is formless grey. Dark shadows of the southerly White Mountains in the distance, the northerly Misty rise stark and overbearing. A breeze comes up from the Gap towards the last hills of Emyn Muill, where they stand. It brushes against them, cool and smelling of spring grass. The morning mist that hangs makes of them phantoms in the velvet morning light. 

Aragorn leads them down rocky outcrops and through paths of sharp stone, sparse grass, half-hazard trees and much granite. To Boromir’s delight, the land begins a slow evening out as they continue their steady descent into Rohan. Coming to a halt at the edge of a steep cliff, the four pause to collect themselves. 

‘Fangorn Forest and beside that is Isengard.’ Aragorn says, pointing to a dark mass in the north. ‘Southward is Gondor.’ 

Home. Boromir’s eyes follow the White Mountains towards the dim suggestion of Drúadain Forest which marks the entrance to Gondor. It is nothing more than a pinprick on the skyline. 

Gimli squints into the distance. ‘Which murky bit is your land?’ 

‘The middle murky bit. Follow the river south, south, south, there’s a murky bit that is smaller than the White Mountains?’ 

‘I see.’ 

‘That’s Drúadain Forest and on the other side of it, Gondor. But most of our land is on the other side of the mountains.’

Gimli grins up at him, ‘And we have such great luck crossing mountains.’ 

Aragorn clears his throat. Hands fidget with sword. ‘Are we all agreed to try for Isengard?’ 

‘Is that where they’ve taken Merry and Pippin?’ Gimli asks. 

Aragorn nods, face grim. ‘The trail so far says as much. And the Uruk all bore the mark of the White Hand, so I’d put good money on it.’ 

Gimli rubs hand over his face. Says that he hopes they are in time. He doesn’t want to think about what being too late would mean. 

The climb down is along a jagged set of stairs carved into the side of the rock. Soft from years of facing the elements they tread carefully. Eyes trained on feet, on each other, and nothing else. At last they come to solid ground. And before them, as if entering another world, the tall, strange grasses of Rohan. 

Boromir has always loved Rohan. He loves the sky, which is so big it could consume a person. He loves the way the land rolls, how it is an ocean unto itself. Chest high at some parts, some parts higher, yet other areas the grasses merely come to a man’s knee or waist. He can well understand why many view it as a world apart. 

Entering the grassland you resign yourself to the unknown. You are forced to admit there are things you cannot see and cannot predict and cannot know. You are made to look at the reality that some of these unknowns might be the death of you. Or the making. 

The sighs of the grasses are a song. Boromir marvels at those who understand it. Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, tried to explain it to him when he passed through last year. He hadn’t been successful. 

The sun shines. There is no way to escape it. And the sky is murderously blue. And the land heartbreakingly green. 

Boromir wishes he were seeing all of this in a different world. Different circumstances. He wants to say something to Aragorn but can’t think of what words would be the right ones. What words are there for when your future king kisses you, surrounded by dead Uruks, before diving back into the brushland to search out other companions? 

Is there a poem for this? Boromir almost laughs. Probably. He knows well enough that there is a poem for everything. Elves have little else to do, he supposes, than compose poems _ad nausea._

Not that there has been time for words. Only running. And tracking. And gasping for breath. And wishing to the stars for a nap. And more running. 

It has only been a day and a half since they left Amon Hen. Boromir cannot understand how it has been so short a time and so long a time. 

He wants to stop and rest. He doesn’t want to stop and rest. Because that would mean time to think and reflect and relive his shame. 

How can the others accept such betrayal so calmly? How can Aragorn think to do _that_ after his confession? How can Gimli simply say: _If not you, it would have been one of us. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of._

He believes Gimli. He knows Gimli isn’t the sort to offer empty words. He does not suffer fools, nor does he suffer those he considers untrustworthy. 

Gimli, after they set the boats adrift to confuse and deter anyone following them, ‘You are not to blame.’ 

‘That’s some serious horseshit,’ Boromir snapped back. 

‘The Dark Lord is to blame. Do you blame a man who gets robbed for making the mistake of walking a street or do you blame the robber? The Dark Lord made the ring for the purpose of destruction. Those caught in its path aren’t to blame.’ 

Boromir shook his head, that isn’t how this is. He struggles to explain how it was his thoughts, his actions, his intentions that drove him to it. ‘And if I was so weak, so early in our journey, how can you trust that I won’t fail again?’ 

Gimli grabbed his arms, pulled him down so they were eye level, ‘You won't fail again. Because you haven’t failed to begin with.’ A pause, Gimli chews a thought over. ‘When Thorin retook Erebor he encountered the hoard that Smaug made of all our riches, the riches of Laketown, of the many people around the Lonely Mountain. 

‘When a wyrm has occupied a space for long enough, part of its greed, its mad lust for accumulation, control, ownership of all it desires, is left behind. My father says that it embeds itself into the gold it sits on, into the walls of the place it has taken as its home. 

‘That essence, that sickness, infected Thorin (among others in the Company) and it made him do things he would never have done in his right mind. 

‘My father says that dragon sickness gets into your head and takes the thing you prize most and twists it around and around so it no longer is recognizable. For Thorin it was his home, avenging his father, making a safe place for his people to live ’ A slight smile. ‘Sound familiar? 

‘My father does not blame Thorin for what the dragon-sickness did. I don’t think Master Bilbo does either. Nor did my cousin Balin. Nor any of us. We are all capable of becoming dragon-sick. We are all capable of falling for the Ring. 

‘Becoming ill because of these things, because we have lived lives that make it easier for them to get into our heads, or because we are too trusting, too loving, it is not our fault. It is not the prey’s fault the wolf attacks and we are all prey for the Dark Lord. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’ 

And Boromir nodded, said, _sure, sure, I’ll try harder._ And Gimli patted his face saying, _You’ll get through this. We’ll get you through this. You’re not alone._

Which makes Boromir fret. What if he is not through this? What if the Dark Lord finds another way to get into his head and twist it about so he no longer recognizes himself? 

Gimli may say that he sees no blame for Boromir to bear but Boromir sees plenty for Boromir to bear. He may have been impacted by the Ring but he still made the choice. He made that decision. No one did it for him.

He waits for a follow up thought. Something from that whisper of Duty who has been so quiet since Amon Hen. Because Duty is ashamed of him, he decides. 

The sun begins to set and it feels as if they’ve made little progress in their slow trek towards Isengard. 

With the grass it becomes harder to track the Uruks, causing more pauses. More halts for conferencing. At one point, with grass reaching over their heads, Aragorn kneels down so Legolas can stand on his shoulders to see. 

‘They remain in their north-west stride,’ Legolas says, lightly stepping down. ‘We must chase after them swift as a nightingale.’ 

‘Are nightingales particularly swift?’ Gimli asks, leaning on his axe. 

Legolas sniffs. ‘I speak as I find.’ Then he smiles, warmly. ‘Are there swift creatures you would prefer?’ 

‘Otters,’ Gimli replies. 

‘But they are in the water.’ 

‘Your point? We’re not in the air.’ 

Legolas frowns. Taps his chin. Aragorn lifts his eyes to the sky.

Boromir snorts. ‘We can have secret names.'

Gimli holds a finger up, looks at the group with a menacing eye, ‘If any of you dare call me _Otter_ I will have your guts for garters.’ 

‘And what beautiful garters they would be,’ Legolas sings. He twists about and points. ‘We must away to the west. Come along, Otter. We must not tarry.’ He disappears into the grasses. Gimli bolts after him yelling that if the damn elf dares spread this to anyone out of present company he will regret the day he was born. 

Aragorn motions ahead of him, ‘After you.’ As Boromir passes, Aragorn catches his arm with a smile. ‘It’s a bright day. I was glad to see you laugh.’ 

Boromir colours. ‘It was a whimsical conversation.’ 

‘We should have more of them, then. And your arm?’ 

‘It’s bearing up well enough.’ 

Aragorn searches his face and Boromir insists, ‘I’m well, don’t worry about me.’ Aragorn neither agrees nor disagrees, merely squints at him then turns and departs into the green. 

Running in green is like a blindness. It reminds Boromir of the blinding when they entered Lothlórien, only this is all sunlight and green. Not the black of covered eyes. They run single file with Legolas leading for the time, giving Aragorn time to rest at the back. 

‘A moment,’ the elf holds up a hand. He looks at the trail they have been following then points out to their right. ‘Something light footed has gone this way,’ 

Boromir shakes his head, ‘I don’t see what you’re seeing.’ 

Legolas steps around an invisible mark, hands stroking the grass, eyes trained on the ground. Bobbing his head happily he holds up a slender finger. ‘You three wait there I will be but a single moment.’ A second later and he disappears into the darkness between tall stalks. 

Boromir looks to Aragorn who shrugs. ‘Must have scented a trail.’ 

Gimli turns, ‘Scented?’ 

Aragorn nods with an _oh yes_ expression. Boromir rolls eyes, pats Gimli on the shoulder, ‘It’s you and me, my friend, you and me.’ 

‘It’s been you and me since the beginning,’ Gimli says. 

‘I haven’t the faintest what you mean.’ Aragorn says, tugging at a stalk to peel the grass away from itself. 

‘It means, lad, that we’re the only normal ones.’ 

‘ _Lad?_ ’ 

‘Don’t worry. I get called a lad as well,’ Boromir says amiably. 

‘And I’m not entirely sure what you mean by normal,’ Aragorn continues. ‘You forget, Master Dwarf, we’ve been travelling together for over six months. I know you well.’ 

‘Aye, you know my bladder is the size of a thimble.’

Boromir snorts. Stepping into where Legolas has gone he squats to inspect the ground but sees nothing of note. If Aragorn meant _scented_ the way Boromir assumes he meant _scented_ he supposes the elf _smelled_ something. Which makes him think of Nazgûl and Gollum and slinking, creeping things of the earth. Not that Legolas is anything like those beings, of course. He is fair faced, light hearted, musical, and incredibly _elvish._

He decides it’s the heightened senses that all elves have. That’s what he is stumbling over. 

‘A belt.’ A brown hand juts out of greenery ahead of them, the rest of Legolas follows. ‘I found it not too far from here. A Halfling did depart from the group but was retrieved and brought back. In this small journey he did lose his belt.’ 

Handing it to Aragorn Legolas continues, ‘We are very near but not near enough.’ 

‘Thank you for that terribly illuminating assessment,’ Boromir mutters. Aragorn raises an eyebrow which Boromir ignores in favour of trotting ahead a few feet. ‘Let us hope they’ve not paid too dearly for their adventure.’ 

‘That thought burns my heart as if it were a brand,’ Legolas says. ‘They are so small and so merry. A spring song. Spring songs should not be disrupted by discord.’ 

‘No,’ Boromir agrees slowly. Gimli laughs and Boromir feels that it’s aimed slightly _at_ him. Or, rather, at the situation. 

Tucking the belt away Aragorn again takes the lead. Over his shoulder he is all encouragement: ‘They are but two days ahead of us. We have gained on them.’ 

Boromir passes this information on to Gimli who grouses that his legs aren’t as long as theirs, which makes this exercise a good deal more difficult for him. 

‘Where’d you men of Gondor get your height? It’s unnecessary.’ 

Aragorn’s dry _ha_ drifts through the foliage. It settles against Boromir’s chest. He thinks he would run to all ends of the earth if Aragorn asked it of him.

Night brings them to a stop for council. The grass has slackened so it is only at their waists and they can see the trail left by the orcs stretching out ahead of them. 

But for only so far, then it fades and again they would be relying on subtler signs. Many of which are lost in the dark. The moon shows her face and would be enough to hunt by but for the clouds that are slowly, but steadily, engulfing her. 

‘Do we halt for the night or continue on?’ Aragorn asks. 

Gimli leans on both his axe and Boromir, ‘Surely orcs stop for rest?’ 

‘These ones have been going steady through day and night, which makes them unique in that regard.’ Aragorn looks up to the moon, sighs at the incoming weather. ‘Everything has been against us since Moria. Look, all the decisions I’ve made since then have gone amiss. What think you all on the path forward?’ 

Boromir is in two minds - if the orcs do not stop, why should they? At the same time, whatever evil is lending its speed and resilience to these creatures is not giving it to them. His feet hurt in a way he has never felt before. His lungs detest his existence. His body wants to be horizontal, bloody great rock in the lower back included. 

Legolas, ‘My heart says we should keep going but we should not separate. I will go with the majority council.’ 

Gimli holds up his hand, ‘All hands for taking a rest?’ 

Boromir looks out to their journey ahead of them, up to the now-gone moon, the night’s darkness deepens. He holds up his hand. 

Now Aragorn’s vote. His face wrinkles. Slowly his hand goes up. ‘I would be with Legolas on this, save for the darkness. I would rather us rest and remain on the trail in daylight than run ourselves ragged but stray off track.’ 

Gimli claps hands together. ‘Wise choice, we will all feel better for the rest. I’ve been on many journeys in my life and I know, for a fact, I can’t run to Isengard without some rest.’ Taking off his pack he drops it to the ground with a satisfying thud. 

Legolas says he will take first watch, since he is the least tired. Aragorn declares he will take the second. Before laying out his role he pauses by Boromir. ‘How are you?’ 

‘Tired.’ 

Aragorn tilts head to the side. He looks at Boromir and through him. Boromir sighs, ‘I’m fine.’ Aragorn does not appear convinced. ‘I will be fine.’ 

‘There’s been no stop this last day and a half.’ 

‘No.’ 

‘And your arm, how is it fairing?’ 

‘As I said earlier, it’s fine.’ Boromir tries for a jesting tone, ‘It’s certainly been better.’ 

Aragorn, somber: ‘Everything said at Amon Hen remains true.’ 

‘I don’t doubt it.’ 

‘Do you still mean to go on to Gondor?’ Aragorn plays with the straps of his bedroll. ‘We are nearing the point when that choice will need to be made.’ 

Boromir smiles cheekily. ‘And I will wait until then. All decisions we discussed in Lorien have been tossed to the wind, I think.’ He glances over to Gimli who is already asleep. To Legolas who stands off to the side from the company, tall and strong as a young tree. ‘Things change so quickly. Who can say what they will be in a few days from now.’

Aragorn agrees, bows his head and presses Boromir’s good arm before moving off to find a place to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sanctuary_  
>  My land is bare of chattering folk;  
> The clouds are low along the ridges,  
> And sweet's the air with curly smoke  
> From all my burning bridges.  
> -Dorothy Parker
> 
> (thank you to aadarshinah for the title suggestion & poem recommendation!)


	2. Edoras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note on dates: Theodred was wounded at the battle of Isen on Feb. 25; Amon Hen was Feb. 26. It takes about two days to ride (hard) from Edoras to the ford of Isen.

The grass around Edoras is not the sturdy, tall stalks of the north which in a single season can grow upwards of thirteen feet. There is a reason, Gríma believes, that the Éothéod remained horse people even after settling in Éomarc. Someone has to be able to see above giants' grass and the best way to do that is on horseback. 

In the north, towards the Limlight where he was born, the grasslands are so thick even horses can lose themselves in it. As the plains slope down into the basin of the Limlight it becomes sedges, rushes and river-grass. Not as tall and all much softer and sweeter. Rushes smell of mud and freshwater fish, the plains grasses are mothy and dry. They remind Gríma of fire. 

Which sometimes ravages them. A wind will kick up untamped coals or a storm will burst its way in through the Gap and start up a fire that will eat its way across the land. Afterwards all is cinder and char and the smoke catches in clothes and hair so everything smells like a fire-pit for months on end. 

But, after all of that, new grass arrives. It forces its way up from the depths of ash and stands greener and stronger than before. A metaphor for something, Gríma thinks. Some skald somewhere has probably created a poem about it. 

The plains of the Wold and the Eastemnet descend so gently into the eastfold-proper it’s almost imperceptible save for the change of dirt under foot and the grasses themselves. Which aren’t as tall, and are of a deeper colour than the faded heights of the giants' grass. 

Sweetgrass, horse grass with its frayed, burley tops, and moth grass are the primary grasses of the westfold. Before you come to the White Mountains and it all turns to hard rocks, crabgrass, and mealy mountain stalk. 

Gríma sits out back of Meduseld twirling a stalk of horse grass and squinting into the rising sun. He watches the red-ring around the sun glimmer in fierce forthrightness that Mordor likes to exude before fading as it continues its quest skyward. 

Taking the horse grass he begins bending it in half then in half again then again. He stops, lets it go and it bounces back, though creased and in steps. A commotion rises up from the other side of the building. Closing eyes, Gríma leans back. 

Someone shouts something about needing bandages and a bed and the medicine man - where is he? Send for him immediately. Then, Éomer’s voice in his lilting eastfold Eorléden, ‘I’m going to wring his neck—’ 

Gríma smiles. Doors open and close. He thinks he will wait a while before inserting himself into the chaos of a returned wounded son of the king. 

He winds the grass around his finger. Continues with eyes closed, thinking that the sun is very warm and he is content to sit here for the remainder of the day if this is the sort of simple but bountiful heat he will get from it. 

The sound of boots on ground. An exasperated sigh. ‘You.’ 

Gríma smiles again. Replies with eyes still shut: ‘Me.’ 

Éomer takes a few steps closer then waits. Gríma doesn’t reply. Éomer’s grave voice: ‘The king’s son has been wounded.’ 

‘Has he?’ 

‘Gravely.’ 

Gríma finally turns and looks up at Éomer who stands with arms folded, an expression of deep suspicion writ across his face. ‘That is terribly upsetting.’ 

‘Don’t play that game with me,’ Éomer snaps. ‘I know you had something to do with this.’ 

‘Assuredly not,’ Gríma replies. With a flick of his wrist he discards the grass stalk, watches as soft breeze catches it and takes it aloft and it is born out of sight. ‘I care for you and yours. Théodred’s wounding brings me no pleasure.’ 

Éomer eyes him, frowning. At length he says, ‘My uncle would see you.’ 

‘Ah, you didn’t seek me out for the pleasure of my company?’ Gríma stands and dusts down his robes, rearranging them as he goes. 

Éomer snorts, derisive, and turns around to walk back to the front of Meduseld. 

‘I would never call your company enjoyable, Gríma.’ He says over his shoulder. ‘But I believe you return the sentiment so we both may take joy that we have found, at long last, something to agree upon.’

‘You weren’t always so distrustful,’ Gríma replies lightly, following after Éomer. ‘It’s a relatively new development of your character.’ 

‘Relatively new,’ Éomer mutters. ‘If you call three years-on _relatively new_.’ 

‘Very well, a not-so-relatively-new, albeit significant, development of your character.’ 

‘Significant? Pray tell, how is it significant?’ 

‘Significance depends upon one’s age,’ Gríma replies amiably. 

‘I suppose.’ 

‘As you’re one-and-thirty, three years has greater meaning, is a greater length of time in terms of influence, as opposed to if you were one-and-sixty.’

‘And you’re what? Forty? I don’t think you can much speak from experience. You've barely nine years on me.’

‘A very informative nine years, I assure you. Regardless, the point stands.’ 

Éomer stops so they’re lingering at the corner of where the portico of the hall begins. Éomer turns to face him wearing an expression Gríma cannot read. And here he thought he knew the horse-lord’s face. Gríma believes Éomer to be one of those men who cannot hide their thoughts. He is open like the land and sky of Éomarc. Indeed, Éomer is one of the few Gríma would say is truly _of_ the Marc. In his look, quiet mannerisms, flashes of feeling, yet beneath those momentary fires, a strong steadiness. Like a river running below ground carving caverns and caves. 

If Saruman were not claiming lordship over these lands, and since Théodred has been ordained as "not long for the world," Gríma suspects Éomer would have made a good king. 

Better than his uncle at any rate. 

Alas, that is another lifetime that is not their current lifetime. Not that Gríma particularly cares. 

‘Are you saying being a snake in the grass is not a recent and significant development for you?’ Éomer asks. ‘I had always thought it so. Before this, I found you disagreeable, grasping at times, disdainful of your station, but not poisonous.’ He shrugs. ‘Yet here we are.’ 

‘ _Disdainful of my station,_ ’ Gríma hums. ‘How interesting. I do beg you to forgive me for not wanting to always be a farmer breaking my back in an unknown hamlet in the Wold.’ 

As to the accusation of _poisonous,_ and all it implies, Gríma wishes to reply: _I take offense._ But that is not unlike lying to the Gods, an impossible task. Because Éomer knows Gríma knows he knows about Saruman. And Gríma knows that Éomer knows Gríma knows he knows. It’s an ouroboros-esque situation. 

Which Gríma points out: ‘We’re at a bit of an impasse, aren’t we, my lord Éomer?’ 

‘I beg to differ.’ 

Gríma shrugs. ‘If you must.’ 

Éomer studies him a good while which is not unlike having your head split open by the sky because his eyes are that colour and his hair could be the sun. A deeply unpleasant experience, all around. Gríma wishes people would stop rooting about in his mind. It leaves one with a great sense of having been invaded. 

Sliced open and pinned down like one of Saruman’s unfortunate specimens. 

‘I’ll see you brought down,’ Éomer says evenly. ‘I suppose that’s the most open declaration of intent we’ve had, yet.’ 

‘I intend _you_ no harm.’ Gríma tucks his hands behind his back, waits for Éomer to turn around and head inside. He doesn’t. ‘I’ve never intended _you_ any harm at all, my lord.’ 

‘For some reason, and I can’t put my finger on why, your assurances only cause me greater doubt and worry.’ 

Gríma flashes a smile. ‘See, we can still make jokes. You owe me a game of backgammon, by the by.’ 

‘Do I?’ 

‘Last we played was almost four years years ago. Speaking of the past. We were left, also, at an impasse. Three-three I think.’ 

Éomer’s expression turns from inquisitive distrust to something of wonder. ‘You think I’d sit down and play a game with you?’ 

‘Oh,’ Gríma steps forward and pats Éomer’s cheek as he passes. ‘We’re always playing a game, Éomer.’ 

Evening is two things: The first, Éomer leaves with his éorod after calling Gríma a _Warmongering snake_ to which Gríma replied _At least I’m not a feckless nephew after my uncle’s throne_ over which Éomer almost punched him and Gríma reasons that the response wouldn’t have been unwarranted. Not that Éomer is power-hungry, quite the opposite. The man is obnoxiously humble and wants only for his horse and some orcs to run around after. 

However, alongside his simple wants and needs, Éomer is a Good man so merely gave Gríma a furious look and said _Do not judge others by your own base measures, Wyrmtunga._ Then about-faced and stalked out of the golden hall. 

The second: Gríma finds Théoden weeping in his rooms amidst the royal tapestries and finery experiencing a moment of uncomfortable clarity.

Gríma slides in on the pretext of bringing the king something soothing to drink. His entrance causes Théoden to lift his head. ‘My son is dying,’ he says in barely audible Westron. Tears dry on his face. ‘My son is dying and I am unable to even walk to see him.’ 

The tea is deposited by the bed and Gríma stands back as Théoden covers his face with trembling hands. 

‘I don’t know how this happened,’ Théoden whispers into them. ‘Weak as a child when I was once as strong as any man - I remember that - I’m ashamed to face my own men. How did it come to this?’ 

Gríma tilts head to the side, idly wonders if Théoden is aware of the depth of his question. 

Lowering his hands Théoden blinks about. ‘You are here, Gríma, are you not? You are not someone else?’ 

‘I am Gríma, my lord.’ 

‘Sometimes, I think someone scratches at the door at night. Théodred, when he is king he must make sure ...’ he trails off. Chin dips to rest on his chest. Théoden stares at his hands which are not the hands of a king. Gnarled, they are riddled with age spots, large veins, papery skin of the elderly, and arthritic. Gríma assumes there must be pain. A whisper, barely audible: ‘My son, is he still here or has he gone?’ 

‘He remains alive though wounded, my lord.’ 

‘He is wounded?’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ 

A distraught and forgetful Théoden is a Théoden who can only manage Westron. Being born and raised for much of his life in Gondor, the king’s grasp of Eorléden is greater than his father’s but Gríma would hesitate to call him _entirely_ fluent. And with his mind and memory dimming, language is one of the first things to go. 

Which makes for interesting spellwork. 

It is best to bind a person in the language they are most comfortable in, which in Théoden’s case is Westron and Sindarin. However, as the spellworker, it is best if you work in your earliest language. Which, for Gríma, is Eorléden. He speaks better Westron than Théoden does Eorléden but his Sindarin, well, Gríma would (generously) call it academic. 

His mother’s language is not relevant and so he does not make use of it in this context. No one in Éomarc speaks Skoltse. Well, no one outside of the Wold and the far reaches of the eastemnet, and certainly no one of nobility. 

He wonders what it must be like to be king of a people whose language you learned in adulthood. The finesse and nuances you cannot fully appreciate. It is one of the reasons Théoden is so reliant on others for managing the kingdom’s legal matters. He does not wish to wade into Éothéod law without having the ability to parse it. 

‘Théodred is strong, my lord. He may yet survive.’ 

Théoden does not speak. His hair, white with preternatural age, hangs haggard over shoulders. Lips move but words do not escape. Gríma motions to the tea. Says that it will help the king to sleep. And the king needs his rest. His health is frail and he is not so strong as he once was. 

‘Have you ever felt your life to be a dream?’ Théoden asks. Gríma makes a noncommittal response. ‘You watch it and cannot understand how it came to be? You look around, you do not recognize anything - not the people, the land, yourself. But it’s all so dark. There are no doors and no light. I think I see a glimmer sometimes, but it is an illusion. There’s no way out.’

Gríma takes a chair from its home against the wall and sets it by the king’s bed. Sitting himself down, he smooths robes, tugs at his cuffs. ‘What do you want out of, my lord?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ Théoden’s voice dips again so Gríma must lean forward to hear. ‘All of this.’ A defeated wave as if to indicate _my room, Meduseld, everything._ ‘I feel like there’s something I should be doing but I can’t remember what it is. That there’s something behind me, coming for me.’ 

‘There is nothing here to hurt you.’ 

Théoden turns from his inward gaze to Gríma and looks him in the eye. ‘Isn’t there?’ 

‘No, my lord.’ Gríma rests palms on his knees, leans back in the chair. ‘At times, I feel something similar, if it’s any consolation. Like there’s a wolf chasing me. Except there is no wolf, it is only my mind playing a trick on me. To make it feel like there is a wolf behind me, at all times.’ 

‘Are you saying my mind lies to me?’ 

Gríma shrugs. ‘Sometimes it does.’ 

Théoden continues to stare with unblinking eyes so full of pain and misgiving that Gríma cannot meet them. He looks up to the carved ceiling, down to tapestry lined walls. 

‘It’s like memory,’ Gríma explains. ‘Memories can lie. You can make them up, embellish, or lose them. The mind is slippery at the best of times. Worse, when you are overworked, overburdened - which you have been, my lord.’ 

Taking up the tea he hands it to Théoden repeating how it will help him sleep. Théoden’s hands are weak and Gríma worries he might drop the cup, spill water and herbs across lap and bedsheets. 

‘Here,’ Gríma sighs, leaning forward. ‘Let me help.’ As Théoden takes small sips Gríma returns to their conversation, the slow meandering path that conversations with the elderly can be. It reminds him of his grandmother in her last years. How small she had become. A little bird that could not remember what it was. 

With tea finished Gríma sits back in his chair, twists ring around his finger and studies the king’s face. He says, ‘To your point, my lord, there are times when I think things have happened but I’ve lost them. They’ve gone away from me, or I have shut them out.’ 

‘Good things?’ 

‘Maybe.’ 

‘Bad things?’ 

‘Who wishes to remember those? Now, my lord. You had better rest.’ Standing, Gríma unties the drapes around the bed and closes them against the chill. ‘Do not worry about the future and you need not think about your son. _Onswebbe,_ Théoden-kuning.’ Théoden’s eyes drop shut. He sags fully into his pillows, head tilting back to rest against the board. 

The richly embroidered drapes that line his bed are scenes of battle, majestic moments in Eomarc’s past and even farther back before they became Eorlingas and were just Eotheod. Before the Oath of Eorl, the making of a kingdom. When Theoden sleeps he sleeps surrounded by what he once tried to be but could never quite manage. 

Blowing out the bedside candle Gríma murmurs into smoke, ‘Théoden-kuning, Ic þū nemne oferséocnes. _I name you illness._ Ic þū nemne ealdnes. _I name you old age._ Ic þū nemne forgitelnes. _I name you forgetfulness.’_ The smoke hangs in air then gathers upon itself, thickens, grows pale parchment in colour before settling down over the slumbering king. 

_Ic þū nemne popet ab Saruman._

Visiting the stables to tend to Sæwine before bed, Gríma pauses by the ladder that leads up to the loft where rests hay, storage of grain and other necessary things for winter months. The air has thinned and that means someone has tampered with his stone. Which would explain Théoden’s moment of clarity.

Taking himself up to the loft he heads towards the back wall that faces out over Edoras. In the dark he gropes around, hands brushing spiderwebs, disturbing dust that sprinkles itself over fingers and sleeves. 

At length, rough stone. A rope. The horned rock hangs from a cross beam and is meant to deflect witchcraft, curses, the evil eye. The cord wraps through a hole in the stone that was water made. It’s one of those things you find when you are not seeking it. Which is what lends it power. 

But all powers can be negated, inverted. For the horned rock, all you need do is cover the hole with a rock of a darker colour. Which Gríma had done and, rummaging around on the floor, he can no longer find. Presumably whoever removed it took it with them.

Probably put it in a stream, if they were smart. 

As he brushes down Sæwine, Gríma makes note to find a replacement. He says companionably, ‘Don’t worry. Saruman is only claiming lordship over these lands. Which means we'll have bent the knee to an ally of the Dark Lord, thus the obliteration that is destined for Gondor won’t happen here.’ Sæwine buts his head against Gríma’s. ‘I won’t let any harm come to you,’ Gríma promises. ‘ _You_ need not worry.’ Sæwine snuffles, bumps heads again, then settles. 

Stepping out from stables Gríma is greeted by the hum of crickets, a distant croak of frogs discovering spring warmth, the smell of hearth-fires. He stands in the darkness, staring out to westerly shadows of the White Mountains. He knows when he returns to Meduseld it will be to the smell of sickness and age. The silence of a hall filled with the dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Rohan and the Rohirrim were based on Anglo-Saxons, and their language was supposed to echo that, I'm just shamelessly including my terrible attempts at anglo-saxon to differentiate from the Westron. 
> 
> Eotheod is both the land and the people, but it's the older pre-Oath of Eorl term. Eomarc, however, is specifically the land of Rohan that was gifted to them by the steward of Gondor. Which is to say Eotheod and Eomarc can be used interchangeably to mean Rohan. Eorlingas and Eotheod can also be used interchangeably to mean the Rohirrim themselves. 
> 
> In other news, Tolkien should have spent more time developing the Rohirric language because this is annoying. 
> 
> **NB:** So, to avoid things getting WAY too confusing, I'm using the Eomer/Eowyn/Theoden/Grima etc. names that we are given even though they are, technically, translations of their actual Rohirric names. 
> 
> So in *actual* Rohirric, Lōgrad is Eomarc/Eotheod which is, in Westron, Rohan/ the Riddermark  
> Lohtur is Eorlingas/Eotheod, in Western, Rohirrim/Rohirric. (Eorlingas meaning the People of Eorl; Eotheod means both Horse Land and Horse People) 
> 
> Lo/Loh in Rohirric = Eo in Old English which means Horse - so Eomer and Eowyn's names are actually Loh-something. Theoden is Tûrac. etc. 
> 
> It gets a bit noodley so I'm just going to uh roll with Anglo-Saxon = Rohirric; not address the name-translation issues; and roll with that.


	3. The Wold

It is to the dim grey of early morning that Boromir wakes. His arm throbs. It protests even the thought of movement. He thinks he should prod it and see if there’s any infection to worry about. He hopes there won’t be a need to cut anything out. Though, as it was an orc arrow, he considers himself lucky he’s not been poisoned. Indeed, that it hasn’t flared up till now is remarkable. 

Lying amidst the sweet smelling grass he remains still with eyes shut. The only sounds are birds slowly waking and the shushing of stalks against each other. 

He doesn’t know what he should be doing. How he should behave. This is such uncharted territory he feels adrift. He thinks that Aragorn kissed how a flower opens. Except faster. Perhaps a bit overwrought in its romanticism but now that he’s thought that thought it’s lodged in his head. 

His body doesn’t know what to feel, how to feel. His stomach is knots of anxiety; his chest is heavy with embarrassment and shame; his head is half on fire because of what happened and half drowning because of what happened. The fire for reasons of Aragorn. The drowning for reasons of the Ring. 

His arm - well, he could do without its grievances. Of which there are many. 

Opening eyes Boromir stares up to fading stars and waits for his regular reminder of what it is he owes his family. There is the usual hum of not wanting to disappoint Denethor; the regular hubbub of wanting to keep Faramir safe; but the intensity of that whisper named Duty does not arrive. 

It is as he thought last night: Duty is ashamed of him and wants nothing to do with him.

Rolling over then up Boromir shakes sleep from his bones. While spring is arriving so days are warm, the nights remain cool enough that morning dew settling on sleeping forms causes a chill. 

Legolas and Aragorn are watching the horizon. 

‘Anything of interest?’ Boromir asks, joining them. 

‘They are now many days ahead of us,’ Legolas says sadly. ‘I do not see how we can gain on them. Perhaps by magic but we none of us are lords of the sky.’ 

‘Eagles,’ Aragorn translates. 

‘No,’ Boromir agrees. ‘We none of us are birds. Which way have they gone?’ 

‘They are beyond my sight from hill or plain under moon or sun.’ 

Aragorn mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a rude word followed by ‘Saruman.’ With antsy energy falling off him in waves Aragorn paces. He pauses every few seconds to scan the horizon, as if hoping it will give up as yet untold secrets. Eventually, he stops and eyes the ground critically before lying down, pressing ear to the earth.

In the midst of this Boromir nudges Gimli awake who bats his hand away with _I’m up, I’m up._

Back to Aragorn, Boromir asks: ‘Well?’

‘I’m waiting for the ground to give up its secrets. This may take a moment.’ He closes his eyes and lays palms flat upon the soil. 

A moment lengthens. Becomes several moments rolled together. Boromir whispers to Gimli, ‘Is he asleep?’ 

Gimli replies, ‘I don’t think so. He just mouthed something to himself.’ 

Aragorn’s face is a calm yet concentrated one. Boromir stares at it for a long moment, thinks a few things best not thought of, then decides he should rummage for food. Lembas. A square is located in his pack and he breaks off a corner to eat with little enthusiasm. Oh yes, he is thankful for the food. The elvish bread is a marvel in how only a few bites will constitute an entire meal yet there remains a sense of wanting. He misses the shockingly elaborate breakfasts Sam always managed to cook up. Even when he was absolutely certain the Company was down to only hardtack there was Sam, frying up sausages. 

Where they came from is anyone’s guess. He supposes halflings must have a form of magic. He dearly hopes they do. For all their sakes. Frodo and Sam will have need of sturdy breakfasts, going off to face Mordor alone. Merry and Pippin will have need of luck. Anything, really, that could lend them aid. 

Breaking off a piece of his lembas he tosses it over to Gimli. ‘Breakfast.’ 

Gimli sighs. ‘How can something so small be so filling?’ 

‘Magic.’ Boromir wiggles his fingers to Gimli’s evident amusement. Gimli glances over to Legolas whose face betrays no opinion on their conversation. Boromir waits for a comment that never arrives. Folding the leaf back over the bread he tucks it away. 

‘How much do you want to bet he’s taking a nap?’ Gimli asks. 

‘I wouldn’t bet too much were I you,’ comes Aragorn’s voice. 

Boromir grins at Gimli who rolls his eyes. Movement from their earthbound friend and Aragorn is back up, dusty with dried grass in hair. 

‘The earth tells me little and what it does convey is confused. The orcs have gone north west but they are days ahead of us. Yet, I also heard horses. They went west for a time then north.’ Aragorn rubs hand over face. ‘There’s something strange afoot in Rohan. The riders usually don’t go so far north. The Wold is sparsely populated. Villages here and there, but the thane is towards the south, where Wold meets Eastemnet. And the marshals of the mark never come up here.’ He taps his chin a moment. ‘It’s a sort of grey space, the north half of the Wold. Naturally, we’re right in the midst of it.’ 

‘Well,’ Boromir hauls himself back up. ‘I suppose we best get going again. Nothing for it but to keep moving forward.’ 

‘We will fly,’ Legolas says merrily. ‘But across land.’ Taking the lead Legolas darts off towards the shadows of the White Mountains, the distant pale blue of western sky. 

This, their third day, seems endless. The sky is wider than ever, bluer than ever. The grey-green of the grasses stretch on as far as the eye can see. Then, the grasses stop and become mountains. 

Boromir continues to wait for something to change. For one of his companions to remember what happened only a few days ago and say: Right, see the Gap of Rohan? Keep running through that all the way back to Gondor. 

But they don’t. 

Gimli treats him the same as he ever did - jovial, brotherly, warmly. During their brief moments of respite to partake of lembas or take advantage of secret springs that creep up through the soft grounds beneath foot, Gimli happily chats away about his family and what trade they’ve had with the people of Rohan. If not that, he conveys his strong opinions about the rock that makes up the land. Limestone and granite, Boromir is informed. 

Gimli pats a rock, ‘When you bite down on the legacy of dwarves this is what your teeth will ultimately hit. Granite.’ 

‘And marble,’ Legolas adds. ‘You spoke much about marble in Lorien.’ 

‘Aye, that too.’ 

Legolas remains impossible to read so Boromir doesn’t attempt to discern if Legolas treats him any differently. The only change with Legolas is the sudden verboseness which was absent before. Or, perhaps, Boromir had not taken the time to listen. 

Aragorn - well. Aragorn is Aragorn. Which is to say, concerned because he is concerned about everyone always. He still operates on the three modes Boromir noted at the outset of their quest: grim, anxious in a bush, or reciting lyric poetry. 

But, beneath the grim moments and the anxious-in-a-bush (or tall grass, now) there is softness and care. Maybe it had always been there, as well, but Boromir had not the ability to see it. Or maybe it’s new. Regardless, it is a precious thing and Boromir doesn’t think he can undertake the momentous task of deserving it. As strange and eccentric as Aragorn is, Boromir thinks the man deserves someone special. Someone who has proven their worth. 

There is the necklace, the elvish woman. She must hold great meaning for Aragorn and Boromir thinks: well, if that be his choice, at the end of all things, then so be it. He thinks he would like to meet her — at the very least, he would like to know her name. 

More days pass. All the same and seemingly endless. Exhausting in ways Boromir did not expect. Exhausting in ways Boromir has not felt before. Boromir to Gimli, ‘I think a part of me wants to vomit into the grass.’ Gimli to Boromir, ‘Ah, welcome to the group, a part of me already did that.’ 

A slim moon creeps over the horizon and upwards into the sky when Aragorn draws the group to a halt. 

Boromir drops to the ground and begins unbandaging his arm which has been complaining the past few hours. He prods the wound and it seems to be in fine enough shape. Whatever strange salve Aragorn and Legolas keep foisting on him seems to be working. Will the wound knit clean? Unlikely. Will he die of it? Thankfully not, he thinks. 

Across from him, Gimli sags down with a sigh of exhaustion. ‘I’ve never been this tired in all my life. I swear to the roots of the mountains there’s some evil at work here. This isn’t normal.’ 

Aragorn makes a noise of agreement as he joins them. Stretching out, he rests his hands on stomach saying, ‘It’s Saruman. I would put money on it.’ 

Gimli, ‘Then Gandalf was right and the horse lords have sold themselves to the Dark Lord.’ 

‘Bullshit,’ Boromir says. Quickly, ‘Apologies. I didn’t mean to speak harshly. I would blame it on hunger and exhaustion if I thought them adequate excuses. What I mean is, Saruman can work evil against us while the men of Rohan are innocent of it.’

Gimli tilts his head saying that is true enough. And it could well be the case. 

‘I never believed Rohan joined with Saruman,’ Aragorn says. ‘That was always Gandalf’s supposition.’ A brief, sly smile. ‘He wasn’t always right about things. He did love his grave pronouncements that no one would think to challenge. However, that Saruman has gone to Mordor’s side, _that_ I’ve never doubted.’ 

Legolas settles beside Gimli in his delicate manner. Back perfectly straight he peers up into the sky. ‘The stars are dimmed. Saurman has done workings upon the heavens so even the low light of the moon cannot guide us.’ 

Boromir and Gimli look up as well. Boromir notes the gathering clouds. How they shroud the world in a cunning darkness. Earlier in the day Legolas said that so far as he could tell, the orcs had entered into the shadow of Fangorn forest. A forest whose name makes Boromir more anxious than that of Lothlórien. 

Men may not come out unscathed from Lothlórien, but they generally do return. The problem with Fangorn is, men go in _and they don’t come back out._

Boromir settles down into the grasses. There are no insects. No crickets or moths. No ants upon the ground. No nightingale (swift or not). The world is silent. 

Staring forward he watches Aragorn turn onto his side. Their eyes meet. Boromir flashes a smile. He wants to say: Remember the last time it was this silent? We were stalked by Crebain and attacked by wargs. 

But it doesn’t seem the time. 

Aragorn returns the fleeting smile and closes his eyes. Boromir notes the shape of his nose, eyebrows, chin, lips that generally tug down slightly towards the right, messy hair that never stays in its queue. 

He sighs, rolls onto his back and stares up to roiling clouds. He knows how lucky he is to be here, listening to wind sweep across the planes. To be here, smelling the many sweet grasses of Rohan. To be here, lying on ground in one piece and not torn asunder. 

To be here and alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie really doesn't capture how long the Hunters ran across Rohan.
> 
> Q: I can denote which are Boromir chapters and which are Grima in the titles - would people want that?


	4. The Edge of Fangorn Forest

Quests are like cycles, Boromir decides. Endless, endless cycles where your eyes have declared war on the horizon because they’re tired of looking at it. 

Or, perhaps, it’s like those shells that spiral in on themselves but when you put them to your ear you can hear the ocean. 

[And gods does he miss the ocean. Salty air, metal going to rust, fish decay, gulls, and dried ocean weeds are summers with his uncle. A few carefree months when he and Faramir would play in the surf, find crabs in wading pools, hold them up so their uncle can see their small red bodies, the one big claw grasping the air in an attempt at defense.]

As they left Imladris and walked for days on end through Hollin where time bled together, so they left Lothlórien and are running across Rohan in such a manner that time bleeds together. He only hopes there is no repeat of mountain passes or mines. 

They spend a further two days running across Rohan. Seven days since Amon Hen. Boromir decides he no longer thinks Rohan beautiful. It’s grass and grass and grass and gods his legs hurt and his arm continues to trouble him. He and Aragorn still walk around each other delicate as cats on a thin wall. Very high up. One misstep and -- 

He doesn’t like to think about falls. The act of falling. He thinks he might still be in the midst of it. The fall. There is more than one way to fail, after all. 

He determines he will be better. He will not fail again. Now that they are heading towards Rohan, towards the world of man, Boromir feels a little more firm on his feet. He had felt out-of-place when there was the need to be nigh-invisible, and any sanctuary they came across was that of elves. 

He can lead an army; a small Company of nine on a secret mission where you must even hide from the sun itself? Not his strength. 

A wry smile. 

All of this to say: he feels that he is again in Hollin. The constant movement, keeping strange hours, attempts at discretion (he _cannot wait_ to have done with the hide-in-a-bush-when-we-see-a-bird routine), knowing that at any moment they may be noticed by the enemy who is elusive but present.

Also, the silence. 

After the noon-mark Aragorn pauses the group, holds a hand up: ‘Listen, there’s horses.’ They listen. In the distance, feint, the unmistakable sound of many horses on dry ground. Boromir frowns, this seems unusually out of the way for the riders of Rohan. They are north enough, now, that the outline of Fangorn begins to present itself on the horizon. He didn’t think marshals and their éorod rode regularly to the hinterlands of Rohan. The folk who live along the edges of this country tended to make do for themselves. 

The hunters find a small hillock to wait on for the riders to arrive and, once they are clearly visible, Aragorn stands and waves them down with a call of _What news of the Mark?_

Like birds, the riders alter direction in a swift movement and soon bear down upon the four. Legolas’ hands twitch over his arrows at their rapid approach. Boromir shakes his head, makes a motion of _no, no need to draw weapons._ This doesn’t seem to reassure the elf. The Rohirric, surrounding them, eye the group with caution. 

Looking about, Boromir hopes to recognize a face or two but none are men he’s met before. Granted, he’s only visited Rohan a handful of times - most government relations being done through letters and visits of Rohan to Gondor. 

Two men to Boromir’s left shift themselves out of the way and are replaced by a rider with the mark of the house of Eorl upon his breastplate. His plumed helmet hides some features but Boromir thinks he knows that face. 

‘What?’ Boromir asks, grinning up at the man. ‘Is this how you greet old friends, Éomer?’

A sharp laugh and Éomer takes his helmet off with a warm smile. He leans forward, resting arm on saddle pommel. ‘It’s how we greet people who emerge from grass like phantoms, son of Denethor. Anyway,’ he hands his helmet to a man near him and dismounts. ‘I didn’t think we’d see you again so soon. You went north what? Six months ago?’ 

‘Seven.’ 

‘Seven!’ Éomer swoops in, crushing him in a hug. ‘You’ve no idea how happy I am to see your face. You really don’t.’ 

‘And I yours. We’ve had an ordeal.’ 

Éomer stands back to look him over. He laughs again. ‘I’ll say. You look terrible. Worse than me after last year’s midsummer festivities. After which sister-mine declared that I smelled like a distillery and looked worse than an orc.’ Éomer pauses. ‘Perhaps you’re not that bad.’ Looking over Boromir’s shoulder Éomer takes in his companions with caution. ‘So, who are your friends?’ 

Boromir happily pulls the others forward, ‘This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Gimli, son of Gloin of the Lonely Mountain--’ 

‘Then you know the men of Laketown?’ Éomer asks brightly. ‘We still do some trade with them, even though these dark times have made it more difficult.’ 

‘Oh yes,’ Gimli nods. ‘Good men, all in all. But they’ve been hard pressed lately. Attacks on the eastern border, more orcs than usual crawling out of their foul holes.’ 

‘As is ever the way,’ Éomer sighs.

Boromir, continuing, ‘And this is Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood.’ 

Éomer looks not a little awestruck as he gives a bow of greeting to the elf. Boromir hears Éomer’s half whisper of, ‘An ælf!’ Then, more clearly: ‘We didn’t know anyone who wasn’t a servant of the Dark Lord still resided in those woods.’ 

Legolas tilts his head. ‘Someone must attempt to care for the trees. Trees that are awake should not be left unattended.’ 

Éomer peers at Legolas, says slowly, ‘So you know of trees that speak?’ 

‘And move,’ Legolas shrugs. ‘All must be cared for, even those that are not awake.’ 

Éomer glances off towards the north, the looming darkness of Fangorn. ‘I’ve heard tales of trees that speak and I’d like to hear more, but unfortunately there’s no time at the moment.’ To Boromir he says with great warmth, ‘You’re all most welcome. Things have been going foul here of late. Saruman,’ Éomer’s voice drops, ‘is attempting to claim lordship over Éomarc.’ 

‘We’ve heard,’ Aragorn says. ‘A friend of ours, Gandalf the Grey, passed the news on to us. I believe he was also here seven or eight months ago.’ 

Éomer’s face flickers between interest and concern. He glances up to the sky in thought then back to the group. ‘Gandalf’s name may not be the password it once was with our king. Saruman’s web is thoroughly woven.’ 

‘Théoden is taken in?’ Boromir’s heart sinks. The familiar tide of dread wells up for if Rohan falls Gondor’s becomes an inevitability. To be besieged on all sides - no people can withstand that. 

‘Sort of,’ Éomer remains thoughtful. ‘It’s more that he’s been -’ He turns to a man beside him and they have a quick conversation in Rohirric. ‘He’s been bewitched. I believe that’s the right word. We have many for it - _galdorcræft, drýcræft_ and so on.’ 

‘Bewitched works well enough,’ Aragorn says amiably. Boromir lifts an eyebrow at him: really? He speaks Rohirric as well? Is there a language he doesn’t speak? Aragorn smiles his mischievous smile. ‘I was here for a time, when Théoden was a young man. It was long ago.’ 

Éomer, in something of awe, ‘You don’t look old enough, if you will excuse me for saying so. My uncle is nearing seventy.’ 

‘I am of the Dúnedain. We’re long-lived, though not as long lived as our ancestors.’ 

‘That’s something from a fairytale.’ Éomer turns and explains in his language to the riders who all murmur amongst themselves. ‘This is all something from a fairytale. Dúnedain, ælfin .. A question, we did not see you until you hailed us, by what uh,’ again a pause on the word, ‘bewitchment was that?’ 

‘It was no magic. Though I suppose those not familiar with elves may term it such.’ Aragorn continues, explaining Lothlórien at a high level which, once translated to the riders, garners more excited murmuring alongside a few looks of distrust. 

‘Lothlórien,’ Éomer says cautiously. ‘There’s a witch in those woods, is there not? I’ve heard tales of such a thing. She beguiles men and leads them astray. Turns them into things unnatural.’ He glances to Boromir. ‘You’ve heard those stories in Gondor, surely?’ 

Oh no, Boromir thinks, this controversy is going to be resurrected. 

‘Don’t call the lady of the Golden woods a witch,’ Gimli snaps. Boromir sighs, catches sight of Aragorn suddenly becoming interested in the horizon. Legolas smirks. ‘She is more fair and more just than any you’ll meet, horselord.’ 

Éomer bristles, ‘I speak as I hear, master dwarf. There is no shame in being wary of - of _drýcræft._ Especially when you know what it is capable of.’ 

‘The Lady Galadriel is no servant of darkness, she is everything that is good and bright under the sun.’ 

‘But men go in and become enchanted,’ Éomer continues. Again, he turns to Boromir for support. ‘Did you see any such work?’ 

‘I-’ Boromir falters. ‘I saw and experienced things that were strange. But, I have reasons for not trusting my memory of that time that are entirely separate from Lady Galadriel. I found her to be the consummate host, a kind and generous gift-giver. She provided sanctuary when we needed it most.’ 

Éomer seems to accept this but he still eyes their cloaks with concern. Another man of the éorod leans over his horse, says something in Rohirric. Éomer half-turns, replies with a deep sigh. A rolling shrug. 

Back to Boromir. ‘Please come with us to Edoras. Any and all aid against Saruman is needed at this time and I would be most appreciative to have Gondor’s support. Anyway,’ Éomer makes a face. ‘All newcomers to the kingdom must be presented to the king. Not the world’s most efficient law. I feel I’m playing courier more than protector.’ 

Boromir estimates Edoras to be a good four days ride from here and they’re already so far behind the uruks. To go there and back would be to give up Merry and Pippin as dead. A thought he has not allowed to be presented as possible until now. He has clung to thin strings - the belt, the leaf of Lorien. Such small things but they meant life. They meant hope. Turning towards his companions he finds them wearing similar expressions of grief and concern. 

Gimli is the first to speak: ‘My lord, we are tracking a group of uruk-hai who have taken two of our friends captive. You must understand that time is essential and we have lost more of it already than we would like.’ 

‘A group of uruks - we slaughtered such a group during the night. North west of here, by the edge of the Fangorn forest.’ He grips Boromir’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t see anyone who wasn’t an orc. I’m sorry.’ 

‘But they’d be hobbits,’ Gimli says. ‘Two little hobbits. They’d be no more than children to your eyes.’ 

Éomer shakes his head with sympathy. Then, he turns and there is a flurry of words to one of the men who gives an apparently reluctant agreement. 

‘As you are traveling with Boromir,’ Éomer says, ‘and he is known to us, I will let you continue on provided, when you have completed your task, you come to Edoras and present yourselves.’ An expression Boromir cannot read passes over Éomer’s face but it could be called sly. ‘I think, given that Boromir is among you, I can force an allowance to be made.’ As much to himself as to the hunters: ‘Boromir presented himself six months ago, and I can argue that I represent the king _in absentia_ -’ he waves his hand _et cetera._ ‘It’ll do. As you see, I’ve become skilled at finding loopholes in laws. Not my favourite activity.’ 

‘It’s that dire?’ Boromir asks. 

‘You'll see for yourselves when you come. Look, I must away for I’ve stayed away from the king too long.’ Remounting his horse Éomer adds, ‘Take Hasufel, Sigegar and Arod. Their masters were slain in battle with Saruman’s orcs, may they bear you all to a better fortune. And a final warning, before we part ways: Saruman’s been known to walk about these parts 'guised as an old man hooded and cloaked. Be wary of him to be sure, but I would caution you to be wary of his voice more. It ensnares those who venture too close.’ He smiles a mirthless smile. ‘I wish you luck in finding your friends.’ 

‘We trust to hope,’ Legolas says, alighting onto Arod. 

‘I sometimes feel that it has forsaken us,’ Éomer replies. ‘But, I don’t let myself feel it for long. There are others who want us to despair, and I’ll not give them the satisfaction. A man I once knew said that spite is as fine a motivation as any, if it keeps you on the track and gives you strength to go forward.’ Éomer then bids farewell, declares again that he is happy to have seen Boromir and met his friends. It makes his heart a little lighter, knowing they will be at Edoras soon.

‘That spite driven man still there?’ Boromir laughs, taking Sigegard’s reigns. ‘He sounds like a fun person to be around.’

Éomer’s mirthless smile makes a reappearance. ‘He died. Or, he is currently dead. Who knows, sometimes there are resurrections.’ 

With horses they make great gains on their prey and soon they entered the Wold and the sight of Fangorn forest loomed close. 

It isn’t until early evening that Boromir begins to see signs of a skirmish and smell the acrid smoke of burnt corpses. There is no smell like that of burning hair, burning flesh. Ashes of the dead float down and land on shoulders, hover in the air a moment before settling on the ground. 

The fire clearly burnt long and hard. 

Coming through the high grasses the four hunters soon happen upon the pyre and several spears with orc heads mounted. Their bloated tongues jutting out, flies covering faces but the white hand of Saruman remains clear upon their helmets. 

No one speaks. 

They circle the remains in a cautious group then, without a word, spread out to try and find some glimpse of their friends. With grim determination Boromir takes his sword and begins parsing through the burnt remains. He believes he should be the one to bear this task. No one else should have the burden of being the one to find them in such a state. As he is the cause of the dissolution, it is his duty to do the grim tasks required for reunification. 

Even if it is just to bury them.

Something catches his eye - a belt. He reaches for it. It is the beautiful leather working of Lorien. He holds it up, ‘I found another of their belts.’ 

Aragorn bounds over and takes it, hands shaking though his face is clear determination. Boromir turns away, back to the dead. But there is nothing more. Only orcs and, after a certain point, it becomes impossible to tell if any face or foot belongs to someone other than the servants of Saruman. 

Boromir sighs, shifts through the last section of remains. He shakes his head, ‘I’ve found nothing else.’ 

‘Nor I,’ Legolas says. ‘I do not see their light feet upon this ill-used ground.’ 

‘Gods, I can’t bear thinking how this will hurt Frodo,’ Gimli says, resting forehead against the back of his ax. ‘Or Master Bilbo. Elrond didn’t want them to come-’

‘Gandalf did,’ Aragorn says, though uncertain. 

‘And he’s renowned for his foresight,’ Boromir mutters. 

‘His council was rarely grounded in foreknowledge of safety, for himself or others. He believed that there are times when it is better, even necessary, to begin than to refuse. Even if the way forward is dark.’ But Aragorn is speaking to the dead orcs. He is not looking at Boromir or Gimli or Legolas. He rubs his thumb over the leather-work, the beautiful tooling now marred by fire, the delicate metalwork. 

Then, with a sudden cry of frustration Aragorn spins, kicks an orc helmet out into the field where it lands with a dull thud. Sinking to ground he buries his head in his hands. A litany of very quiet _fuckfuckfuck_ is all that can be heard. 

No one else moves for a long moment. Both Gimli and Legolas turn their gaze to Boromir with faces that mutually say: _now what?_

As if Boromir knows what the best course of action is now that there is no chance of finding their friends. But, there is Aragorn still on the ground. That is something he can take care of. Holding up a hand he motions that they should let Aragorn have a moment to himself. He knows he would want the same. It’s a careful process, getting a leader back in the saddle again. After a few minutes pass, he walks over with enough noise to warn of his coming then sits himself on the ground beside Aragorn. He leans over to partially nudge him with his shoulder. 

‘It’s not your fault,’ Boromir says, looking out to the horizon. 

‘I lost them.’ 

‘Saruman took them,’ Boromir corrects, though gently. ‘There was four of us against hundreds of uruk-hai. It’s not your fault.’ 

‘I ought to have moved us out sooner.’ 

Boromir plucks at the grass before him. He takes up a piece and winds it around his finger as Aragorn wallows sadly beside him. Boromir is uncertain of how to proceed, how to get Aragorn back on his feet, back on point. He knows how to maneuver his brother back onto the right path, his father, his own generals and men. Aragorn is unlike all of them. 

In many ways more elvish than man, and the ways that aren’t elvish are simply foreign and strange. Boromir reaches over and pulls him into a one-armed hug. Aragorn allows it but continues to repeat that he is to blame for this. He is at fault - how can any of them have confidence in him? He barely has confidence in himself. 

‘Ever since I took over I’ve led you all astray.’ 

‘That is not true at all,’ Boromir replies. 

‘I lost Merry and Pippin, Frodo and Sam have gone off -’ 

‘From what you told me, they were going to leave regardless.’ And, Boromir doesn’t add, probably for the best. All things considered. It was going to be them or him. 

‘I led us over Redhorn Pass and we all nearly died.’ 

‘A decision we _all_ agreed to. It was a group choice. No one knew it would end thus.’ 

Aragorn glances over, ‘You did.’ 

Boromir, stoutly, ‘I absolutely did not.’ 

‘You were the only one who thought to bring firewood, who thought of how to get off the mountain once we were snowed in --’ 

‘I grew up under the White Mountains,’ he shrugs. ‘It was second nature. This serves neither of us--’ 

‘And truly, the gap of Rohan, had we taken it back when you first suggested it, might have been the best option --’ 

‘Look,’ Boromir maneuvers himself so he is kneeling in front of Aragorn. He holds the man by his shoulders. Aragorn looks at him, slightly startled, as if registering that Boromir is here for the first time. ‘None of this serves any purpose. You will drive yourself mad looking back and picking over every decision, every step the foot took to get where it is now. It was you who got us out of Moria, you who secured us safe refuge in Lothlórien, you who knew when to let the ring go. That was you. I wouldn’t have been able to do that, none of us would have.’ 

‘You’d all have managed.’ 

Boromir smiles something bitter. ‘Oh, no. We wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have.’ Aragorn looks up to meet his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be here. I would be dead. Or worse.’ 

Aragorn dips his head, breaths in. Boromir rocks back so he is sitting on his heels. Looking over Aragorn’s head he finds Legolas and Gimli and gives them a look: _Almost done. Two more minutes._ They both nod. 

‘Come on,’ Boromir gently tugs at Aragorn’s arms. ‘We’re going to rest here tonight and start again tomorrow.’ 

‘What if they’re in …’ Aragorn trails off, glances over to the smoking orcs. 

‘They’re not,’ Boromir says with more conviction than he feels. ‘We found a belt, and it’s whole. What does this mean? Tell me what it means.’ 

‘It means someone took it off.’ 

‘And that tells you they had time to take it off, were physically able to take it off and that they were aware enough to realize they didn’t need it, for whatever reason. Either Merry or Pippin is still alive. If there’s any justice in this world, both will be. That is something to hold on to.’ 

‘Perhaps an orc took it off.’

Boromir stands, pulls Aragorn up after him. ‘Why would an orc do that? In the middle of a skirmish? It doesn’t make sense. Merry or Pippin took it off then ran. Morning will bring us more answers.’ 

Turning to Gimli and Legolas Boromir says, ‘We’ll make camp a little ways off from here. Legolas, perhaps you can find a place that provides sufficient cover for us. Gimli, a fire wouldn’t be amiss.’ 

Taking the horses’ reigns he hands Hasufel’s to Aragorn who dutifully takes them and follows after Legolas and Gimli. Boromir pats Arod and Sigegard as he leads them forward. The hunters follow the treeline of Fangorn for half an hour before Legolas settles on a spot for them to rest for the evening. 

‘I would advise you not to cut from living wood,’ Legolas says as Gimli sets about collecting firewood. Gimli glances up to the looming shadows of the forest and mutters that it hadn’t crossed his mind to and now, that Legolas has said something, he is absolutely _not_ sleeping with his back to the trees. 

‘Sit,’ Boromir says as Aragorn begins to take his pack from Hasufel. ‘Eat this.’ He hands him a piece of lembas. 

‘I can manage the horses,’ Aragorn insists. ‘There’s no need for this.' 

‘I’m in charge from now until daybreak. You’re going to sit, eat that, drink some water, and then you’re going to sleep. I will take first watch, Gimli will take second, Legolas third.’ 

Boromir hears Gimli snort from over the fire which the dwarf is carefully growing. Legolas takes up his bow, long knife and with a shivery smile disappears into the grass. 

‘Dinner,’ Gimli says to Boromir’s questioning look. ‘He’s also tired of lembas.’ 

Aragorn, with a prim expression, hands the piece of lembas back to Boromir. Boromir takes it, breaks it in half, then hands the smaller piece back to Aragorn. Aragorn eats it and stares morosely into the fire. 

‘Water.’ Boromir hands the flask over. ‘We’ve been running for four days, you need water.’ 

Aragorn takes it with a look, then relents when Boromir raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Boromir settles down by the fire as Legolas reemerges with a brace of hares of which he makes quick work skinning and putting on the fire. 

The group watches the hares cook, a sudden silence falling over them. Branches above them shift in the wind. A cool breeze ashes over them, coming from the forest. An exhale of decaying leaves. Boromir thinks of forest floors. Of dead orcs. Of rings. 

The shadow of Fangorn grows with the moon as it rises above them. They silently eat their dinner and begin to settle in for the night. 

Wrapping his cloak about him, Legolas says, ‘Celeborn and I spoke before we left. He warned me that we ought not go too deep into Fangorn, though he would not say why. I also spoke with Haldir who declared he would not make himself known to the forest were he us. Boromir, you have heard stories?’ 

‘Only that men go in and they don’t come out again.’ 

‘Therefore, like Lothlórien.’ 

‘No. Lothlórien it is that men would escape but not unscathed. Fangorn there is no escape at all.’ 

Another forest breath washes over them. Boromir shivers, tugs his roll up to work as a blanket. Beside him, Aragorn smokes and watches the treeline. 

‘Aragorn?’ Legolas prompts. ‘What have you heard?’ 

Aragorn frowns around his pipe. He slowly lowers it, returning attention to his companions. ‘Things that I would have put down as fables but for what Celeborn has told you. If he lends such tales credence then I shall as well. I had hoped you’d know the truth of the matter, and if you don’t then I certainly don’t know.’ He shakes his head. A soft repeat, ‘I don’t know.’ 

‘All I know is that the trees are old,’ Legolas says. ‘Old even by the count of elves and that the first born walked among them, while the race of men still slept.’ Legolas contemplates the forest for a long moment then says, almost to himself, ‘I think Fangorn does hold its own secrets. Ones greater and more ancient than that of Ents and old wood and the dead and gone. Even, possibly, of the gods themselves.’ 

As the first watch is Boromir’s he steals Aragorn’s pipe and Gimli’s pipeweed and sets himself up by the fire. Huddled beneath blanket he keeps careful watch on both forest and the land around them. 

Boromir wishes they weren’t so close to the forest but there was little for it given the timing and the need to camp somewhere for the night. In the distance, a fox cries. Another answers it. But, despite these midnight noises, no animal comes near their camp. There is no movement of darkness bound creatures in the depths of Fangorn. Legolas said he had to go a fair way before he found anything worth hunting. And even then: a brace of hares is hardly a feast. 

Better than lembas, he supposes. At least there’s flavour. 

Adding another log to the fire, the embers blaze then soften. He stares at them, their hues of red and black shifting with the renewed fuel. Looking up from mesmeric flames Boromir catches sight of someone standing at the edge of the firelight. 

A man, hunched, wearing an old, weather-stained cloak, and a broad brimmed hat pulled low to cover the face. 

Boromir quickly stands up. Calls out, ‘Can I help you, grandfather?’ 

Aragorn rolls over and in an instant is up, as are Gimli and Legolas. 

The figure remains stationary save for the head which moves and seems to take each of them in. Lingering, it seems to Boromir, longest on Aragorn. 

‘Grandfather, come by the fire,’ Aragorn says, holding out his hand. 

A feeling of mild amusement flows off the stranger. But there is no voice, no laugh, and no face to see though Boromir believes the man can see them, even without eyes.

‘Please,’ Aragorn takes a step forward. ‘Come warm yourself. The night is cold.’ 

Boromir feels a brush of wind against the back of his neck. A hushed sigh in his head. Oh look, he thinks dryly, Duty has returned. 

As Aragorn takes another step forward the man disappears. 

Fangorn breaths out. 

The feeling of Duty’s presence dissipates. 

In the distance are bells and cold laughter. Surrounding them, the smell of a sick room though where it could have come from, Boromir cannot fathom. 


	5. The Telling of Théodred's Death

Théodred’s death brings an uneasy air. More than what existed previously in Meduseld, if possible. You cannot breathe for how heavy the atmosphere is. It weighs on shoulders, chest, down arms. Makes moving a conscious act. And the silence! everything and everyone is made of silence. Gríma knows a natural silence and an unnatural one. This is unnatural, spurred on no doubt by Saruman who is anxious for results. To the point he blindsides Gríma with the sudden disposal of the son of the king. 

[Gríma, on his last visit to Isengard, ‘But what is the timeline, my lord? When do you need everything to be completed?’ 

Saruman turned a page of an old book. Weathered, it seemed to whisper. A soft voice of wanting emitted from the paper. Beckoning and frightening in turn. 

‘As soon as possible.’ 

Gríma tried for a month, ‘April? May?’ 

Saruman looked up, tilted his head as he regarded Gríma. A slow gaze that seeped into the mind. Gríma promptly emptied his. There was but Meduseld, his own office with its well ordered files, Sæwine’s glossy coat of pretty chestnut, and the plains of Rohan. 

A cold smile. Saruman tapped the edge of the book. ‘You have nothing to hide I hope,’ he said in his slow manner that required you to wait. 

‘Nothing, my lord.’ 

‘March. I need everything in place by March.’ 

Gríma did the math. Worked back the timeline and paled. Or would have, if it were possible. He already being the general colour of Snowbourne ice in deep winter. His jaw tightened at the thought of disappointing the wizard. 

‘Please, my lord, I need more time,’ he begged. ‘There have been unexpected delays. Unforeseen circumstances. Acts of the gods, if you will.’ Saruman didn’t reply so Gríma continued, ‘I promise I will have everything done. Théoden fully in your control, the marshalate undermined, general governance in disarray. But please, more time. Surely the Dark Lord can make an allowance of a few more weeks --’ 

‘You said you would have Théoden under complete control by the end of February.’ 

‘Did I?’ 

Saruman inclined his head. ‘You did. Do you not remember?’ 

‘No - that is I um-’ He trails off, trying to find an excuse for his not remembering this promise. For his failure to deliver. But he cannot think straight because his head keeps wanting to become blank as new parchment. Which is the safest way to be around Saruman. Men like Saruman. 

The world narrows to a point and that point is the two of them. Saruman seated in terrible stillness, swathed in white. Gríma, standing awkwardly, trying to make himself smaller. He wanted to please Saruman, he wanted to run away from Saruman. 

Saruman lifted an eyebrow. ‘Well? I’m waiting.’ 

‘I’m sure you are correct, my lord. Indeed, I don’t doubt it all. And while I don’t recall giving a definite completion date, I’m sure I did, my lord. If you remember it, my lord.’ He sucked in a breath. Held it. Slowly let it out. ‘I must have,’ his voice trailed off. 

Gríma thought that he needs to write these things down. He needs to be more assiduous about this and he knows he pays close attention to the details, but clearly he isn’t paying enough attention. This is a problem, he thought, he must be moving too quickly. Not focusing. Everything felt as if it was slipping away - not that he ever felt wholly in control of the situation, to begin with. 

‘I can assure you, you did. Trust me.’ A sweeping look over Gríma produced an unimpressed expression. ‘I do not misremember things.’ 

‘No,’ Gríma agreed. ‘You don’t, my lord. This is my fault. My apologies - it won’t happen again.’ 

Saruman returned attention to his book. Gríma, still standing awkwardly, waited. When Saruman appeared to be uninterested in adding more, Gríma began backing out of the room. At the door, a silky, slithering addition: ‘It had better not, Wormtongue.’]

Unnatural silence does have the benefit of making it easier for Gríma to focus on his work. Bookkeeping for two different Éomarcs makes his eyes blur at the best of times. Let alone with Saruman breathing down his neck. (He tells himself the wizard must be facing pressure from the Dark Lord, he must have his own worries he is contending with. That is why he has turned from congenial and approving to condescending and cruel.) Then, there are the day-to-day happenings of Edoras that get in the way. 

Gríma, Éomer wants to know what last years’ tithes were. 

Gríma, there is a dispute between Thane Stigr and Thane Uthric over land by Dunharrow. No, Erkenbrand is not handling this. Why? I don’t know, Wormtongue, I’m just the messenger. You have to deal with it. 

Gríma, the king wants to speak with you. What about? No idea, I could barely understand him, to be honest. 

Gríma, the dignitaries from Laketown are here to discuss trade.

Gríma, you are needed here. 

Gríma, you are needed there. 

_Gríma, Gríma, Gríma -_

‘Gríma.’ 

Gríma sighs. Sets his quill down and looks up to the bland face of Háma. 

‘How can I be of assistance?’ 

‘Does the king know?’ 

Gríma lifts an eyebrow. Props elbows on desk, steeples his fingers, and regards the doorwarden from over them. 

‘Well?’ 

‘Théodred died but this morning,’ Gríma replies. He leans forward to rest lips against his hands. 

‘Your point?’ 

Háma, being a big man, fills the small space Gríma has requisitioned as his office. Gríma eyes the brazier by Háma’s right side. Háma, thankfully, follows his gaze and takes the hint. He steps away from it. 

‘Our king is particularly unwell today. One of his many ailments.’ A withering smile. ‘Remind me to never grow old.’ 

‘He must be told.’ 

‘Of course he must. It is his son.’ 

‘Are you going to do it?’ 

What skepticism in Háma’s voice. Gríma lowers his arms, plays with the hem of his sleeves. He gives a curt nod. ‘Of course I will tell the king. But not right now. When he is better able to bear such news. We must be mindful of his health.’ Collecting papers he readjusts himself, picks up his quill and returns to his writing. Háma’s suspicion is palpable. 

‘What is that?’ The doorwarden asks. 

‘A summary of tithes collected this year and what is owing.’ 

‘We know what was given - there is no need to write it.’ He frowns. ‘What purpose does it serve when at the Witan we will recite our laws and past dues, as is custom?’ 

Gríma continues writing. Háma, tentatively, ‘Writing is a form of spellcraft, I’ve heard.’ 

‘Have you?’ 

‘Things written down can be controlled. A written name can entrap a man. Runes can be used to enslave a soul.’ 

Gríma sets his quill aside, carefully dusts the paper to dry ink, then turns it around to face Háma. 

‘You can read it, if you’d like.’ Gríma notes the muscles of Háma’s jaw working, the shifting weight, a flash of anger in his eyes. 

‘I’ll not partake of your witchery.’ 

‘There’s no shame, Háma son of Hereward. Our people have a long and rich tradition of stories and song thereby having, in the past, no need for such work as this. As this form of administrative apparatus is a relatively recent development—’ 

‘My father warned Thengel was going to cause only woe by bringing in such a thing.’ 

‘Be that as it may,’ Gríma turns the paper around. ‘If all writing is not to be trusted, as it may or may not be a form of witchery, I wonder at Gondor’s ability to thrive. They write everything down.’ A beat. He picks up his quill again. ‘Great believers in filing systems, are our southern neighbours. Admirable.’ 

‘But there is written spellwork.’ 

Gríma nods. 

‘And it can be used to ensnare people. Not to mention that it can be woven into other forms, how an incantation can be worked into a poem, written spells could perhaps be worked into histories.’ 

‘Quite probably. But I wouldn’t know.’ 

Háma’s suspicion remains. Gríma, in some annoyance, ‘Is there anything I can help you with besides providing ill-informed answers about witchcraft? Also, please fix your shield boss. It’s slightly to the left. A little more. Thank you.’ 

‘No,’ Háma says as he makes ready to take his leave. ‘There’s nothing else. Oh, well, perhaps the Lady Éowyn should be the one to tell her uncle of Théodred’s death. Since she is kin.’ 

A spectacularly bad idea, Gríma thinks as he says, ‘Certainly something to consider.’ 

‘You should learn to speak more plainly. You may be from Rohan, but you don’t speak like us. It would do you good.’ 

Gríma’s shoulders tighten, neck tenses. ‘Thank you, Háma,’ he hisses. ‘I appreciate your concern.’

The Telling of Théoden occurs twice. Gríma is not sure the man registers it either time. No small feat, he wishes to tell the world. 

The first Telling: Gríma can hear Éowyn from down the corridor. Having slipped out of the main hall for a surreptitious smoke around back by the kitchens he returns to hear: Uncle, my king, your son is dead. 

Which is not how he had planned the telling. Éowyn, ever the thorn in his side. Her and her brother. Who has apparently returned to Edoras. Gríma slides back into the hall under Éomer’s distrustful eye. 

All three then watch Théoden who doesn’t respond. Milky eyes linger on a space between them all that they cannot reach. Gríma does not know where Théoden goes in his mind, all he knows is that wherever it is, he is the one who sent him there. 

‘Uncle,’ Éowyn approaches the dais. Gríma moves to intervene but stops when Éomer’s face makes it clear that such an act would be a poor life choice. ‘Théodred, your son, has died.’ 

Théoden whispers. Éowyn leans in, clutching her uncle’s hands. When Théoden stops speaking she turns to Éomer and shakes her head. Gríma rocks back on his heels, arms folded, waiting. 

Éowyn, ‘Please, my lord.’ 

More whispers, equally impossible to understand. The garbled language of the former Horse-Master brings some feelings of pity to the surface. When memories of better days are allowed to be entertained. When Théoden was stronger, when Éomarc did not tremble a leaf in the wind caught between two storms. Days when eastern sky was not as dark as night despite the brightness of a noon sun. 

But those days are gone and will never return. 

Gríma’s heart is in his throat. He swallows, tightly. His chest feels bound by an iron chain. There are ways to unbind his work. If there is anyone who would be able to do it, he thinks it would be Éowyn. She being one of the more clever people in Edoras. There is such cunning in her, which very much reminds him of his sister. 

But Théoden does not rouse from his waking sleep. 

Éomer now steps forward, apparently only just arrived for he still wears his armour and his boots have not been cleaned. He tracks in dirt and leaves, dead grass, the smell of orc flesh burning. 

‘He died fighting orcs at the Ford of Isen,’ Éomer explains. ‘Orcs working for Saruman. I fear Gandalf was right when he visited here last.’ A tossed glare towards Gríma, ‘Which was when? I’m sure you can tell us the exact date.’ 

‘Couldn’t say,’ Gríma replies, narrowing his eyes. He takes a step forward so he is in line with Éomer and Éowyn. He imagines that from the outside it must look as if the three are about to pounce on the ailing king. ‘But you have always been desperate for skirmishes with imagined enemies. Saruman has long been Éomarc’s friend. Why would you suspect him of betraying us? I wouldn’t wish to rely on the foul rumours fueled by a jealous Stormcrow.’ 

Éomer sneers, ‘Suspect? Imagined enemies?’ From his belt he unclips an orcs helmet and shoves it in Gríma’s face. ‘What is this then, Gríma? The white hand of Saruman.’ 

Gríma purses his lips, pushes the helmet aside with a finger as he steps away from Éomer who, with great theatrics, drops the helmet to the floor and kicks it over. Gríma wrinkles his nose as it comes to rest beside him. Looking up he catches Éowyn’s eye, her disinterested face.

The helmet by his foot does, indeed, bear the white hand of Saruman. Smeared and slightly off center. 

Gríma internally sighs. Saruman moves too fast, takes new steps without telling anyone. Seemingly unwise ones, too! If you are to skirmish with Éomarc, but do not wish to declare your intentions, do not paint your soldiers with your emblem. 

Gríma doesn’t know if he can prevent Éomer and Erkenbrad from marshalling their men. He swears he told Saruman that so long as nothing overt happens, he can keep Éomarc confused and disorganized until it is too late. Then it will bend the knee to Sauron for there would be no other choice. 

Killing the king’s son is an act of war. He cannot smooth this over. 

But maybe he didn’t tell Saruman this. Maybe he dreamt it. 

He wonders if he will ever find his feet — three years in and you would think you’d know how to manage a new lord, a new line of work. He feels he is barely treading water at the best of times. It’s like when his brother Owensel would throw him into the Limlight for a laugh. The hard cold of the water a kick to the chest. The inability to breath. The current pulling you out and away from the safety and security of dry land. How dark the river is when you’re beneath it. Gods, he thinks, what is the wizard planning? What is he playing at? 

Kicking the helmet back, Gríma circles around so as to stand closer to Théoden who has begun to mutter, though no one listens. 

‘A trick of Mordor’s, no doubt,’ Gríma scoffs, loud enough so those lurking in the shadowed halls can hear. ‘The Dark Lord does love to create division amongst allies. One could say it is what he does best: sew discord and malcontent. Take those who should be our friends and twist them about in our heads so we can only see them as enemies. Do not fall for it, Éomer son of Éomund. I know you to be wiser than that.’ 

‘These orcs were not from Mordor. Nor were they the only ones of Saruman I’ve seen roaming our land. There was a band found north, in the Wold by the side of Fangorn forest.’ 

Gríma lifts his brow. Oh good, more unexpected news. Éomer smirks. 

‘They have all been slaughtered and so will make no more mischief.’ He drops his voice, sneers, ‘You need not worry about your family, should any remain. If, indeed, you are capable of concern for others.’ 

Gríma ignores him, redirects the conversation back to orcs and the need to let everyone know that Sauron is a great trickster. He says, ‘Not all orcs hail from Mordor. I’m sure Sauron employs all sorts to do his dirty work. Éomarc is besieged on all sides as it is. There is no need to create phantom enemies.’ 

Éomer goes to reply but Éowyn stops him, a hand pressed to his arm. She murmurs, ‘It’s not worth it.’ Then, a whisper Gríma cannot make out but he thinks he hears _poison._ With a toss of her head she strides from the great hall. 

Gríma waits for Éomer to follow suit but he doesn’t. Instead, he quietly assesses his uncle, then Gríma. That mind-prying stare. Gríma looks over to those loitering at the edges of the room. Cautious servants, curious onlookers. Gríma returns attention to Éomer and curls his lips, ‘It’s not wise, my lord Éomer, to bandy about misinformation.’

‘Do you say that I lie?’ 

‘I say that you may be misinformed. Regardless, there is no cause for such ardent warmongering—’ 

‘Warmongering?’ 

‘—we’ll be in the midst of it soon enough.’ A low bow and Gríma sweeps from the hall. 

‘Warmongering?’ A cleaner and better dressed Éomer knocks into Gríma’s office in the dying hours of the afternoon like a storm gale. 

‘Oh dear, hit a sore point did I?’ Gríma looks up from his book, carefully marks the page with a ribbon, then folds hands and waits with great expectation. 

Éomer paces, gives him a dirty look mid-stride. ‘How much were you bought for, Gríma? What was your promised price? What was worth selling your own people? I want to know how much we add up to in terms of silver and gold.’ 

Gríma follows Éomer’s pacing, his tendency to pause and touch things on shelves. Skimming book spines and papers. He stops at a small corner hutch and takes down a device of copper, unfolds it and holds it up. 

‘What is it?’ He asks. 

‘A portable sundial. Please put it back.’ 

‘Expensive?’ 

‘Terribly.’ 

Éomer turns it over. Gríma’s hands itch. He wants to snatch it from Éomer and place it where it belongs but will not give the man the satisfaction of seeing him riled. 

‘Well?’ Éomer prompts, carefully closing the sundial and returning it to its shelf.

‘I’m not going to dignify your accusations with a response.’ 

‘Snake.’ 

Gríma can’t help a flash of displeasure. Éomer smirks, ‘Oh dear, hit a sore point did I?’ 

‘Hardly.’ 

Éomer, coming to rest by Gríma’s desk, reaches forward and takes up a folio of papers. He carefully leafs through it, pausing every so often to skim columns, read a few lines. Whenever he pauses to read he glances up to mark Gríma’s face which isn’t as calm as Gríma would like. His strong suit was never neutral expressions. 

‘This is thorough,’ Éomer says. ‘I would have to sit down to see if it is accurate, of course. But I can tell that it is terribly thorough.’ He sets the folio back and Gríma instinctively adjusts it so the edges align with his desk. He can feel Éomer watching him. ‘I know you to be clever and efficient. Good at your job and hard working. It’s a pity, nay a shame, that it’s for the enemy. I hope Saruman pays well.’ 

Gríma doesn’t answer. He adjusts his inkwell, which was also a victim of Éomer’s need to touch everything in a room. 

‘And I hope it’s worth it. For your sake,’ Éomer continues. ‘You may be a snake, Gríma son of Gálmód, but Saruman is a dragon and all dragons are riddlers and tricksters.’ 

‘How kind of you to proffer advice.’ 

Éomer’s somber gaze, like a weight on shoulders. Though, not strictly unpleasant. 

‘I know you’re cunning,’ Éomer says. ‘But Saruman has his ways. I’d revisit whatever contract it is you made with him. Make sure he remembers to honour it. You know what they say about the voice of dragons.’ 

‘Breath,’ Gríma corrects, absently. ‘It’s dragon’s breath that causes the illness.’ 

Éomer smiles, cold. ‘I know what it is I said and I know well what it is I meant.’ 

The second Telling. 

Gríma detaches himself from his desk, neatens the papers, adjusts his ink and pen, then blows out the candles. Their smoke twists through air, thin tendrils of bodies. 

Passing the king’s rooms he is stopped by Gundahar. A grudging expression on the guard’s face, ‘The king wants to see you.’ 

Gríma raises an eyebrow, ‘Did he say what about?’ 

‘No. Only that he needed to speak with you.’ 

Gríma motions for Gundahar to show him the way and he is quickly led through the king’s rooms to the bedchamber. 

Seeing only embers Gríma says, ‘See that someone relights this after I leave.’ 

The guard looks between Gríma and the beleaguered Théoden who sits before what once was the fire. He sneers at Gríma but departs saying he’ll see to it. 

Théoden slouches low in his chair, a heavy blanket pulled over his lap, a second one over his shoulders. On a low table rests a half-embroidered banner. The white horse against green stands out in the dark of the room. Evidence of an earlier visit from Éowyn. Gríma traces the horse’s face, turns it over and rubs his thumb over the tight stitchwork. 

‘You asked for me, my king?’ He asks, switching to Westron. 

Théoden lifts blurry eyes to squint at him. ‘Gríma?’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ 

‘I have heard --’ the voice drops to a soft mumble. Gríma steps forward, bends so he is closer to the king’s face. 

‘You will have to speak up, my lord, I couldn’t hear you.’ 

‘My son.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Where is he? He should be back.’ More disconnected murmurs then, ‘I’m certain … back now.’ 

Sighing, Gríma kneels down so he is looking up at Théoden with his bent frame. ‘Théoden-kuning, I am sorry, but your son has died.’ 

No change. Gríma licks lips, tries again, ‘Théodred -’ 

‘My son.’ 

‘Yes, your son. He is dead.’ 

At last - Théoden’s brow wrinkles. ‘Dead? How?’ 

‘He was cut down by orcs. I am sorry.’ Shifting weight, Gríma maneuvers a stool over to sit on. He smooths down his robes before adding, ‘He was strong in life. He will find his way to the halls of his forebearers, I have no doubt.’

‘Dead?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Théoden’s wrinkled brow remains but his eyes do not change. Gríma can see neither grief nor comprehension. He pats Théoden’s hand. A line of drool escapes the king’s lips, dripping onto the blanket in a thin line. Gríma rummages in his pockets for a kerchief and, finding one, wipes Théoden’s mouth. This causes the king to stir, a cool hand grasping Gríma’s as he moves to tuck the kerchief away. Théoden lifts his eyes to Gríma’s. 

‘My son - what was his name?’ 

‘Théodred, my lord. His name was Théodred.’

‘There was a time when I rode with him.’ A long pause then Théoden’s eyes drop back down to look at the blanket. He lets go of Gríma’s hand and settles his fingers in his lap. They sit limp and curled. What had once known such strength. 

Gríma waits for more, though every part of him is exhausted. What hour is it? They are deep enough into the night that no one keeps track of time. All the hours are dark ones. 

‘I saw him,’ Théoden whispers as Gríma stands. ‘My son.’ 

‘You saw Éomer, my lord, in the hall today.’ 

‘He was in this room. In the corner.’ Théoden lifts a hand to gesture to the far corner by a closed window that, when open, looks out over plains and the distant White Mountains. 

Gríma returns the stool to its correct spot by Théoden’s chair. On the low table, beside Éowyn’s embroidery, is a bowl of uneaten soup, an empty cup and a broach. Taking up the trinket, Gríma admires it in the low light of embers. Clearly dwarven craftsmanship and of some great age. He glances to Théoden, the door, the far corner where apparently lingers Théodred’s ghost, then pockets it. 

‘Now, my lord,’ Gríma says, taking Théoden’s arm and slowly helping him up. ‘I know what it is to think the dead haunt your rooms, I’ve spoken to you of my brother Baldir before. But it is no more than a mad fancy. Banish thoughts of ghosts from your mind, my lord, for they will bring you no peace. Come, you must go to bed. You need your rest.’ 

A whispered _whatever is best._

‘This is,’ Gríma assures him. ‘This is for the best.’ 

A least someone will get a full night of sleep, Gríma thinks as he leaves for his own rooms scooting quickly past Gundahar with his ugly, pinched face and sour looks. He toys with the broach in his pocket, feels the pin press against thumb, sharp and present. 

And really, considering how hard he has worked for all those years — over fifteen _fucking_ years — this is something he is owed. 

The broach joins the small collection of odds and ends in his trunk all nicely organized by estimated value. Once it is properly placed, Gríma folds his clothes, straightens the candles before, at long last, crawling into bed and falling asleep, face pressed into pillows. 

Morning with its limp clouds, milky horizon. Gríma stands in the doorway to his office and thinks that he might as well start sleeping in the place. Thinking it too early to be so hidden away, he procures tea and wanders outside and around back of Meduseld. Where he finds Éowyn sitting with embroidery in hand - the pale horse, the green of Éomarc’s land. 

He thinks he should be polite and say a good-morrow, then he thinks he shouldn’t because he’s annoyed with her and her brother, then he thinks he should because she will hate it and he’s in a petty mood, then he thinks he shouldn’t precisely because it is petty — anyway, Éowyn notices him in the midst of this internal conflict. 

‘What?’ Éowyn asks. 

Gríma tucks one arm around himself, rests the tea-holding arm atop it. Though February is ending and March is arriving, the chill of morning air still greets them.

‘You’re up early,’ Gríma says for lack of anything else to say. 

Éowyn stabs her embroidery. No one should tell her about poppets, he thinks. 

‘My brother spoke with you last night.’ 

‘He did.’ 

‘He said you didn’t give him an answer.’ 

‘His question didn’t deserve such attention.’ 

Éowyn sits on a half-barrel that once housed ale with her back perfectly straight. She pauses in her work and casts her eyes over the southern mists that form Gondor. Apparently having studied the horizon to her contentment she returns to her white horse. 

‘Well?’ She asks. 

‘Well?’ 

‘What was your promised price?’ 

The morning sky, other than milky, is beginning to streak with shades of gold and red. Though, there remain patches of grey and purple. Bruises of the night on day. Gríma looks up to the heavens and thinks there should be a law passed prohibiting Éomer and Éowyn from being in the same town at the same time. Though, there would be those who would say the same for him and his sister. 

Éowyn, contemplative, ‘Was it power?’ 

Gríma doesn’t answer. 

‘Or was it riches? You like finery.’ 

‘Who doesn’t want to live a comfortable life?’ 

Éowyn cuts the thread. She turns the banner around and, threading her needle with gold, begins to prick out the design that will make for the edge. As is her way, she is meticulous and attentive to details. 

He decides to wonder aloud. See what rises to the surface from beneath the ever-calm exterior. ‘Do you ever resent your uncle and brother?’ 

She blinks, glances over to him for the first time. He can see her surprise, though it be gone in a matter of seconds.

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘Why would you ask such a thing?’ 

‘Well, the theme of recent weeks seems to be asking each other questions that don’t deserve the attention of an answer. I thought I would join in.’ 

She works the needle through a few rounds. They are silent. Gríma, well practiced in awkward silences, waits with great patience. He sips his tea. Éowyn, also well practiced in awkward silences, sews with conviction. 

Turning the banner over to study the backside she asks: ‘Tell me, why do you think I would resent them?’ 

‘You want things. You want things and you’re not allowed to even reach for them, let alone have them. When wanting becomes desolate and despairing I find it breeds resentment.’ 

‘You speak for yourself, I am sure. But I doubt you know much of what I want.’ 

Gríma shrugs. ‘I think I can hazard a guess. Subtlety is not your family’s strong point.’ 

‘I would never resent the man who gave me a home, who is my kin and my king. Who was like a father to me,’ Éowyn replies with steel in her voice. ‘Nor would I ever resent my brother.’ Again, she looks over. ‘Is that why you sold yourself to Saruman?’ 

‘I don’t know what you mean, my lady.’ Éowyn’s face is of disbelief. She pauses in her work to run thumb over the outline. The pretty knots that curl around the edge of the banner. Into the silence Gríma floats, ‘Does your brother know that you wish to be a rider of the Marc? Not just some shieldmaiden to be kept in a mead hall.’ 

‘I’m sure he has an idea.’ 

Gríma shrugs. Maybe he does. Doubtful, but who knows. The world is full of surprises. ‘Would he countenance it?’ 

She doesn’t reply. 

‘It must be hard to be alone, my lady,’ he says, in a musing tone. ‘Your brother so busy with his duties he has no time for you. But, at least he has those things to keep him occupied. What have you? The honest, necessary work expected of a daughter of kings. You’re very diligent. No one could ever fault you.’ He waits a spell before continuing: ‘Though, I don’t think it’s what you want. A life can shrink on itself, my lady. Its walls can close in so there is no place to turn. All that you are, all that you will ever be, is what is in front of you. A hutch to trammel some wild thing in. What, then, is left of a person’s soul when all they are is duty and expectation?’ 

‘Honour,’ Éowyn says, quietly. ‘There is honour.’ 

‘And honour makes you happy? It keeps you warm at night? When you die, you will be able to look back over your life and say that you are content that all you have achieved, all you are known for, is being an honourable shieldmaiden? All you have to hand is honour and fulfilled duty. No legacy other than: I was a faithful sister and niece?’ 

Éowyn’s dry laugh. She looks at him, full in the face, her expression cool as hoarfrost. ‘Your words sound like wisdom, and perhaps there is some wisdom in them. But coming from you? They can only be poison.’

They stare at each other for a moment longer. A bird crows in the distance. Edoras is beginning to wake up and the noise of lived lives drift up from the town. Gríma finishes his tea, bows mockingly low, and bids her good day. He returns to a quiet hall, chilled office. Lighting several candles he thinks there is movement in the corner of the room. Turning to look he finds nothing. 

Théodred’s ghost, he supposes wryly. Come here to whistle through rooms, point fingers and say you have been my death. Make already heavy crowns and mantels harder to bear. 

Gríma has held Théoden’s crown. He knows its weight. He thinks most men would bow under the pressure of it. That is a headdress that is far heavier than it first appears. 


	6. Ancient and Wondrous Trees

The best part of the morning is spent searching for their horses who, in the middle of the night, had apparently pulled free of their stakes and vanished. Boromir speculates the cause of it to be the strange man whose visit left them all disconcerted. 

The remainder of the night had been spent in agitation - every brush of wind was an evil sigh, every cracking twig a herald of foul forces. But nothing came of it. 

And the man himself must be Saruman, Boromir thinks. Rohirric horses are steady, brave creatures that do not take fright without good cause. This gives him pause: where are the animals? The deer and elk, usually plentiful on the plains? The ground squirrels, marmots and stoats? The manifold grassland birds? Besides the occasional fox, there are no signs of the usual predators. Not that he wishes to run into a big cat, bear or a wolf pack, but there ought to be signs of their presence. 

Yet, nothing. It is as if the land has emptied itself. 

A riddle amongst riddles. 

Alongside their horses, the four hunters continue searching for signs of Merry and Pippin. A leaf that once held lembas, cut cords, signs of a struggle - they are at once something and nothing. A glimpse of hope, sure. A sign that the despair the night before might have been premature. But what else can they gather from these things? 

Boromir wishes to know to where they escaped. Who was chasing them? Were they harmed before they managed to clutch elusive freedom? 

Legolas is the first to ask this aloud. A dismal and heavy task. ‘If our friends managed to flee, where did they run to? for it was not into open field, which at the time would have been full of battle and bloodshed?’ 

No one answers. What is there to say? They stand in the shadow of trees and know there is but one way forward. Merry and Pippin did not run into the plains, they are not amongst the dead, by logic and reason they are in Fangorn. 

But no one wants to be the one who declares that this is their future: to be hemmed in on all sides by ancient trees that make even the wisest of elves shudder. 

Despite this uncertain future, the dawn with its tangible clues, has livened Aragorn. He has returned to humming beneath breath as he works through the grasses, looking for any sure sign that Merry and Pippin went where they all assume them to have gone. 

Whenever Boromir so much as glances towards Aragorn, though, he looks away. If it be out of embarrassment Boromir wishes to say, _There is no shame in having a moment of crises._ He doesn’t know a leader who hasn’t had one - most especially those who care. 

There is also the comfort, if one may call it that, that Aragorn’s crises wasn’t tinged with betrayal. He did not cause harm, he did not half-become traitor to their cause. He only felt that he was unable to live up to impossible expectations placed on his shoulders by forces able to carry far greater weight than what man can hold. 

Elves and wizards, should they be autopsied, will be found to be made of sterner stuff than mortals. Boromir is certain Mithrandir was made of whatever material stars are made of. Fierce and bright and powerful. 

Not that he believes men to be weak, quite the opposite. But they are not the same. _That_ is a fact that cannot be disputed. Blood of Númenor or not. 

But Aragorn, for whatever faults may exist as a leader, has not caused a person to vanish themselves out of fear. Boromir thinks he will forever remember Frodo’s face. And he is sorry for it. He hopes they will survive this madness so he may apologize for what he did. Would there be forgiveness? He doesn’t allow himself to hope for it as that is not his decision to make. All he wishes is to be able to say I am sorry. 

He wishes to be worthy of the second chance he has been given. A second chance, he thinks, that he would not have given himself had positions been switched. Had it been someone else who fell prey to the ring. He knows what his actions would have been upon discovery of such treachery and they make him ashamed of himself. 

Which is all to say, he wants Aragorn happy and confident but has no idea how to go about making it happen. 

‘Surely they wouldn’t have gone into Fangorn,’ Gimli says as Legolas approaches a tree, one of the largest near them. ‘Surely they’d have found another way.’ 

Aragorn, with no little concern, ‘If that is where they went, then that is where we must go. Our road is theirs, after all.’

‘What puzzles me,’ Boromir pauses to adjust his pack, ‘is why the uruk-hai didn’t put up much of a fight, all things considered. Back at Amon Hen they could have killed us all with ease, despite their general disorder. Yet they didn’t.’ 

‘Disorder?’ Gimli asks. ‘I didn’t note any, though I was rather preoccupied.’ 

‘Oh, it only occurred to me afterwards that there was no clear rank and file. No banner-men to follow. There was a leader, but no evident officers to keep order. Or even units, now that I think about it. I grant we were fighting in a forest which changes things, but there ought to have been more order to their group.’ 

‘I did not think orcs aware of such things,’ Legolas sniffs from his spot by the trees. 

‘Oh they are,’ Boromir replies, wryly. ‘Amply so. Sauron’s army is so well trained they could march and fight in their sleep. Probably do, for that matter. But perhaps Saruman has not had time to train his men. More importantly, why did they disperse? If they were after the Ring wouldn’t it make sense to kill the rest of us?’ 

‘I suspect they were ordered to operate with speed and discretion,’ Aragorn says. A withering smile. ‘I can’t speak to their lack of military finesse. Perhaps this need for haste hampered them. And Saruman, if he is after the Ring for himself, is playing dangerously.’ 

‘Set himself up as competition to Sauron?’ Gimli scoffs. ‘That’s a fool’s game. He’s shooting himself in the foot while setting himself on fire. As if the Ring would obey his will.’ 

The hunters go silent. Legolas reaches out and touches a tree, his hand covers a knot. Fingers curl over ridges of bark. 

And the tree moves. As if caught in a breeze, though there be none. From within the dark of the forest a deep growling response unfurled of timber shifting against timber. 

Stalking over, Gimli grabs Legolas’ arm, pulling it away. ‘Let’s not go disturbing the forest that even Lord Celeborn told us to avoid.’ 

Legolas smiles blithely, ‘I will not be harmed.’ 

Still, no one moves. 

Aragorn looks at the ground, the scant but still very real tracks that lead them in. ‘Are all of you comfortable with this?’ 

Legolas and Gimli both say they’re content to follow where Aragorn leads. As they’ve said before. Boromir can’t decide if he should laugh or roll his eyes. He thinks it time someone points out to Aragorn that as their leader he is allowed, upon occasion, to make unilateral decisions. Especially when it is a choice that isn’t truly a choice. He supposes that person is him. 

Instead, he motions that he seconds Legolas and Gimli. 

‘Very well,’ Aragorn says. ‘Let us go into Fangorn and hope to the gods we find our friends.’ 

Fangorn suffocates. The closeness of the trees, their heavy, moss clogged limbs, a low preternatural mist that hugs the ground, the age, the silence. Breathing becomes a conscious act. The forest hugs them. Clutches at them. Branches claw hair, grab cloaks and shoulders. Boromir’s chest is tight, as if something inside his lungs does not wish to draw breath. 

After some length of time - the exactitude of which Boromir cannot say for all light is low, grey, unchanging and ever-still - Gimli holds up a hand. All pause. 

‘What’s our plan? I realized we didn’t make one other than entering this dismal place.’ 

Aragorn points, still deeper into Fangorn. ‘Their trail leads us this way.’ 

‘Yes, but we can’t chase them across the entire vastness of Fangorn,’ Gimli says. ‘We’ve not enough supplies to last us and I haven’t seen a single sign of animal life. So, no supplements once we’re out of lembas. Are we to find Merry and Pippin only to sit down beside them and starve together?’ 

This is a fair point and one Boromir had not considered. He thinks he has enough for eight days, ten to eleven if he stretches it. However, once you add tired, hungry halflings to the equation the reserves dwindle fast. 

At what point do you choose to give up hope? At what point do you say, _Our lives are not worth the possibility of theirs._

‘If that is indeed all we can do, then that is what we’ll do.’ Aragorn shifts, frowns at the dreary land around them, before amending himself: ‘That is, at least, what I will do. I’ve failed them enough already. But none of you are oath bound, and I would not ask you to go further than you are willing.’ 

Gimli squints. Boromir snorts. Believes Aragorn will need to work on his tendency to answer: _We could all die_ with: _Well you can go home if you want_ should he become king. Should they make it out of this dank forest, survive melee and war, and live to see him crowned. 

Boromir thinks he’ll draw up a lesson plan: Things Not to Say When Comrades Point Out That We May All Yet Die. 

Legolas, amiably, ‘I saw a clutch of mushrooms but a little ways back. If we desire to explore things beyond our ken.’ 

‘I’ll think I’ll pass,’ Boromir mutters. 

‘Not the time,’ Gimli laughs. 

Legolas shrugs with an expression that seems to say: _your loss_ before he follows after Aragorn who has recommenced the trek forward. ‘Everything is old,’ the elf whispers to Gimli. ‘So old it makes me feel young again. In a way I have not felt since traveling with you children. I think I should have been happy here. Had I come to the land back when there was a brighter sun and the world knew peace.’ 

‘Yes, well, you’re a wood-elf,’ Gimli replies. ‘I dare say you could find a home in a window box provided it had at least one flower. Though you bring some comfort, I can’t look at these trees and think of hearth and home, but I’m glad someone can.’ 

‘Would you leave Fangorn?’ 

‘In a heartbeat.’

‘What if I wish to return?’ 

Gimli sighs a sigh of someone long suffering. Finally he mutters, low so Boromir barely catches it, ‘You well know where you go, I’ll follow. Provided we go together well armed.’ 

Boromir lifts an eyebrow, that quite a dedicated statement for two who only recently became friends. Granted, he sympathizes. He would follow where Aragorn leads (with the same provision of them being well armed), but that dedication is bound up in kingship and well - he loiters over a phrase. He’s loath to name anything, to give himself expectations, hopes, when they’ve not exchanged meaningful words since Amon Hen. 

Bound up in kingship and Amon Hen. 

For a section of their journey Boromir is up with Aragorn rather than behind Gimli and Legolas, forever the rear guard. 

‘I’ve been wondering about something,’ he says suddenly. A question has burst forward into his mind and he worries if he does not ask it now, he will never ask. 

‘Wondering?’ Aragorn prompts. 

‘What did Lady Galadriel offer you?’ 

Aragorn pauses for a half-second. His mouth opens then closes. He purses his lips, ducks his head and continues forward. Boromir feels heat crawl up the back of his neck. Perhaps this wasn’t the time. Or place. Or something he is allowed to ask. There are some intimacies that exist only in fleeting moments. The one where they spoke of her offers and temptations must have been one of them. 

‘Life,’ Aragorn says just when Boromir believes he will never answer and maybe Boromir himself should decamp for the back of the group and never speak to Aragorn again.

‘Life?’ He breathes it out. 

‘She showed me deaths and offered me their lives. What would I do to ensure these people lived?’ 

‘And what was your answer?’ 

‘That I am not the one who decides who lives and dies. That is the role of no man, no person. It isn’t our right.’ A shrug. ‘Though I understand the temptation of it. There are a few people I wouldn’t mind helping along to their inevitable end. I generally refrain from it, though.’ 

Boromir grins, ‘Generally? Is there a dark past I need to worry about?’ 

‘Oh,’ Aragorn’s mischievous smile. ‘Which of us doesn’t have secrets?’ 

‘Fantastic. My future king is a secret assassin. This is excellent. I can see it being well received by the populace as we speak.’ 

Aragorn’s laughter is sharp and loud then quickly is tucked away. He gives Boromir a stern look but there is a teasing edge to it. ‘We should be quiet in these woods,’ he says. ‘Who knows what lurks between these trees.’ 

‘Well, I’m not the one making a raucous.’ Boromir holds up his hands. ‘But I take your point. I shall retreat so as to avoid causing further disturbance. Though I take umbrage at being saddled with the blame of it.’ 

At length, the forest gives way a fraction and they come to a hill within a partial clearing. The air lighter and cooler, it is a relief to feel it washing over their faces. Climbing to the top of the hill Boromir decides he will never take clean air for granted again. 

Sitting himself on the edge of a boulder, Boromir lays back to look up at the sky. Well, a small portion of the sky. What a pretty blue. However, he supposes he’d find any colour pretty after being surrounded by greys and browns and dripping, dark blues and blacks. 

He hears Aragorn ask: ‘Can you see anything?’ 

Legolas, clearly up a tree: ‘More ancient and wondrous trees!’ 

‘Not what I had in mind,’ Aragorn says, dropping down beside Boromir, their legs just touching. It sends a jolt up Boromir’s skin. ‘Nice view?’ 

‘It’s a change. A new perspective.’ 

Aragorn smiles down at him. Taking out his water skin he drinks some then looks about the clearing with evident interest. From the direction of Legolas’ tree, Gimli’s clear voice: ‘You wouldn’t be able to see whatever made these strange marks?’ 

‘Nay!’ 

‘No giants?’ 

‘Not even Boromir’s shadowy friend from the mountains.’ 

Boromir props himself up, hands resting on warm rock. ‘I forgot about that. Seems an age ago. What is time?’ 

‘A flat circle,’ Aragorn says to which Boromir laughs. 

Joining them, Gimli points out a series of large, deep tracks that cover the hill. They are clearly patterned, and certainly remind Boromir of footprints. Footprints unlike any he has seen before. And, concerningly, of something particularly large. 

Aragorn tucks his water away with a shaking head. ‘I don’t know what they’re from. Yet another riddle I can’t answer. But this is where Merry and Pippin’s tracks end. They came up this hill then,’ he makes a hand motion to convey _vanished into air._ They all stare at the footprints. ‘Give me a little bit and I might find them again.’ 

As Aragorn stands to resume tracking Legolas drops down from his tree eyes wide with worry. ‘There’s someone in the forest,’ he whispers. ‘We’re being followed.’ 

Legolas edges back into the tree line that skirts the side of the hill, hiding himself from view. The remaining hunters follow suit. Silently, Legolas takes out his bow and notches an arrow, ready to draw should the moment call for it. From where he stands, Boromir can make out a figure of an old man hunched, wearing grey rags. His hand clutches a staff, upon which he leans heavily as he walks.

‘Saruman?’ Gimli whispers. 

No one replies. All watch as the man approaches slow, inevitable progress. At one point they lose sight of him as he begins to walk up the small hill then, he reappears. As he crests the top, Legolas lifts his bow, draws and aims but waits. His arms tremble, as if he is resisting an unseen force. 

The man stands by the rock Boromir had rested on. His head bowed and hood covering features, obscuring his face in shadow save for white wisps of a long beard. It is not unlike the figure they saw the night before. Boromir’s hand hovers over his sword. Perhaps they shouldn’t have been so welcoming. Isn’t that a thing with magical entities? You have to invite them in. If so, this thing was well and truly invited. 

‘We must be wary of his speech if he be Saruman,’ Aragorn whispers. ‘His voice is his chief charm with which he ensnares people.’ 

Turning to face their direction, though his face remains obscure, the old man greets them: ‘Well met, my friends. Shall you come hither or shall I come to you?’ 

His voice, to Boromir, is water over riverstone. Yet, beneath it, a deep familiarity. He feels he should know it. 

Without waiting the man begins walking, his pace now quick and determined. No longer uncertain in his step, no longer needing the staff for support. As he strides he snaps, ‘Put away that bow, master elf. You’ve no need of it here with me.’ 

The bow drops from Legolas’ hands as if made of fire. 

‘I only wish to speak with you,’ the man continues before abruptly stopping a few feet away. From beneath his grey cloak there are flashes of white. From beneath hood a glint of eyes, like a fox in the night, cautious but fearsome. ‘Kindly take your hand from your axe, master dwarf. And your steel, sons of Gondor.’ 

Boromir’s arm wants to move. Wants to drop to his side to hang limp and obedient but he won’t let it. Because if this be Saruman, he will not let the voice tell him what to do. The Ring may have almost taken him, but he will not allow Saruman the same privilege. 

The old man remains at his careful distance. Boromir’s hand remains clenched on sword hilt but he cannot move. None of them can, he thinks. They are all frozen. Charmed, ensnared. Gods, and Éomer warned them of this very thing! Bewitchment, foul craft of the dark lord. 

Though, unlike the Ring, this magic feels external. The Ring was slippery, how it twisted around in Boromir’s head. An eel through water, leaving no ripple in its wake. He still does not know what of the past was him and what was the Ring and what was both. Which conversations were truly ones he had and which were ones had by a man slowly becoming a creature of Sauron. 

But here? _This_ craft is external. It is a power freezing him from outside. It is a power manipulating limbs, not mind. 

Not that that makes it any better. 

The old man lets out a dry laugh and takes a step forward. A breeze rustles through the trees and his cloak shifts with it, more white robes glimpsing from out beneath the grey. 

‘What is an elf, a dwarf and two men doing here?’ the man asks. ‘And all clad in an elvish fashion. I am sure there is a tale well worth the hearing for that is most unusual in these parts.’ 

The hunters remain silent. Another dry laugh then the pressure that holds them in place lessens. Oh, Boromir still cannot draw his sword, but he thinks he could speak, should he will it. 

Aragorn evidently can for he says, in a cautious manner, ‘You speak as one who is well familiar with these woods. Is that so?’ 

‘No, not _well_ familiar. I would never say that. Who could ever claim to know Fangorn _well_? Perhaps one or two beings, but not I.’ The head tilts up so his chin and beard are visible and therefore the quick flashing smile. ‘But I do visit upon occasion.’ 

‘May we know your name? Then, perhaps, what it is you want of us?’ 

‘My name? What it is I want of you?’ Another laugh, this one long and soft. Boromir feels a shudder run through him, though he isn’t certain it’s one of fear. Rather, it felt as if he had been bitten by keen mountain air. Like the first days on Caradhras. Or, deep winter when you open a door and breath in but your lungs are not ready so they ache with the sudden chill. 

‘My name,’ the man repeats, amusement still tinging his speech. ‘Have you not guessed it? You have heard it before, I think. Yes,’ a slow, shivery smile. ‘Yes, you have heard it before. But come, tell me what brings such a group to these woods.’ 

The hunters glance around at each other. 

‘One would think your errand not fit to tell,’ the old man says. ‘Happily I am not such a person. You are tracking two young hobbits. Is that not so? And do not look at me as if you have never heard such a name before. I know you all and what your journey is. The hobbits came this way but yesterday, and they met someone they did not expect to meet. Does that comfort you?’ 

‘Enough with your riddles,’ Boromir snaps. He feels the others shift. The longer the man spoke the harder it seemed to think of things other than his words. ‘Tell us your name and why it is you are following us. You mention errands not fit to speak of, yet you yourself are equally vague.’ 

The old man tilts his head, ‘A brash demand, son of Gondor. And bold an accusation for one who has had such a journey.’ Boromir glares, but the old man pays him no mind. Turning away, he goes to a large, flat stone and looks it over. Leaning to brush away some debris the cloak falls in such a manner they can see the full, white robes beneath. In the light, they seem to glint cold and bright as sun on ice. 

‘Saruman,’ Gimli hisses. Darting forward he takes up his axe and points it at the man. ‘Speak, I command you. Tell us where our friends are or I will make such work of you, not all the orcs in all of Mordor would be able to put you back together again.’ 

As Gimli spoke, the man turned, took up his staff and before Boromir could react, the cloak was thrown aside shining out a light brighter than the sun before fading. Blinking into the now seeming dark of the clearing, Boromir searches for the man’s face. 

And he finds it. And he thinks the earth is going to fall out from beneath him. 

A month of silent mourning bubbles up, and with it frustration, anger, it threatens to overwhelm. His throat constricts. He pushes it all back down. 

‘Gandalf,’ Gimli’s voice a hoarse whisper. 

‘Well met, I say again.’ Mithrandir replies, if wryly. 

The four cannot move. They remain frozen and staring, faces writ with shock. Boromir cannot believe what he is seeing. Surely this is some trick of Saruman’s. The Dark Lord has sent a messenger to lead them astray - to break their hearts again for Mithrandir is dead. 

‘We saw you fall,’ Aragorn speaks suddenly, his voice rough around the edges. A second, softer, ‘We saw you fall.’ 

‘Yes, you did.’ Mithrandir looks them all over. His eyes lingering longest on Boromir, reminding him of when he was a boy and running truant from lessons. All those things he thought he would never see again, hear again, are now in front of him. He is in turns furious and overjoyed. He doesn’t know if he should punch or hug the man. 

‘I would prefer the hug,’ Mithrandir says with a true smile. 

Aragorn is over to the wizard in a bound and crushing him into his chest. Soon followed by Legolas and Gimli. Boromir lingers, uncertain. He thinks there was something pushing against the edge of his mind. Not unlike Lady Galadriel.

Not unlike the Ring. 

How would the man know what it is he thought? He frowns. ‘Pardon me, but how do we know it’s truly you? Servants of the Dark Lord have many tricks.’ 

The group parts and Mithrandir settles down on the flat rock. ‘That is a fair question, Boromir. How do you suggest I answer it?’ 

‘Well I don’t know. I’m not a wizard.’ 

Mithrandir laughs. It is a laugh Boromir knows well. He thinks that alone may contain the truth. The wizard then hums to himself for a moment before nodding. He taps the side of his nose with his finger. 

‘I know where the pond is,’ he says. ‘The one Denethor took you to when you were a boy.’ 

Aragorn glances over with a questioning look. 

‘And?’ Boromir prompts. ‘Where is it?’ 

‘North of Minas Tirith. A small path that heads into the foothills of the White Mountains. There is a desiccated oak at the edge of the water. You pass three toppled statues of dead kings before you come to it. Though I know you’ve never managed to find it again.’ 

‘What’s in it?’ 

‘Snapping turtles.’ 

Boromir gives a mirthless smile and nods. Swallows, looks up to the sky made into patchwork by trees. Aragorn, apparently deciding proof positive has been ascertained, happily sits himself on a rock near Mithrandir. Legolas and Gimli follow with Boromir being the last. He takes up a spot near Aragorn and fidgets with a twig. 

‘So,’ Aragorn says into the soft silence. ‘You are all in white.’ 

‘Yes, I am. You all thought me Saruman and you weren’t, strictly speaking, wrong. I am Saruman, or rather, Saruman as he should have been. But come, I want to hear of your adventures. I’ve passed through fire and water since we parted and have forgotten much of what was and what will be. Though, I have learned again much that I had forgotten. I can see what is far off, but not what is near at hand. And there is no need to make that face, son of Denethor.’ 

Boromir schools his face into neutrality but when he meets Mithrandir’s gaze he finds the old man’s eyes laughing. 

‘What do you wish to know?’ Aragorn asks. ‘Everything that’s happened since Moria would be a long tale, indeed.’ 

‘Tell us of Merry and Pippin!’ Gimli says, leaning forward, hands resting on the head of his axe. ‘I want to know where they are, how they are faring. Why aren’t they with you?’ 

‘They are safe,’ Mithrandir replies. ‘Perhaps safer than you will be. They are with an old friend of mine, deep in the forest. And, I suspect the part they are about to play will rule the fates of men. But tell me of you. Frodo and Sam? Where are they?’ 

Boromir closes his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose. Of all the people he thought he’d have to tell, he never imagined it would be Mithrandir. He does not know how to begin that story. He does not know if he is able to. 

‘Frodo resolved to go alone to Mordor,’ Gimli says, if perhaps too blithely. ‘Though Sam went with him. Because parting those two is nigh impossible.’ 

‘Sam!’ Mithrandir’s surprise palpable. ‘Well, that is good. Did he go indeed? That lightens my heart, Gimli. But you must all tell me more. Come, I will hear of your journey and all you have conquered.’


	7. Théodred's Funeral, an interlude

A clutch of daisies has been left on the steps up to Meduseld, forgotten by some child who thought to bring them home then didn’t. Their white petals wilt around gold centre-pieces. 

A breeze kicks up, rustles the flowers. Seems to ask if they can be dispersed. 

Growing up by the Limlight, the northernmost part of the Wold, means growing up with all that limestone and chalk; all that grass and dry dirt. The shadow of Fangorn to the west, the barren shadow of the brownlands to the east, the wasteland of the fields of Celebrant to the north. The fields Eorl himself once rode over with pleasure and pride,  back when the fields of Celebrant had been vibrant but no one now remembers it. Or, rather, no one living now remembers is. Everyone _ knows _ it, knows why it occurred, how and when and wherefore - everyone in Aststadr grew up with the story. A collective memory:  _ This is what can happen to land. This is how life can be ripped from soil.  _

Gríma pauses on his way up the steps. He sees the daisies and watches as they shift along flagstone. Against rock, dandelions jut up, defiant. Flowers blooming like the world isn’t ending. Like there is no darkness coming, no darkness already here. Like Éomarc won’t become the brownlands, a desiccated husk of what once was. A state of being Gríma cannot imagine. Is it blissful acceptance or being foolishly unaware? 

Salt the land enough, there will be no more flowers. Make brine of the river. There are areas of the Limlight where runoff from the brownlands flow and its murky, algae-covered water speak to what the Dark Lord is capable of. And if these are the remains of something the Dark Lord did thousands of years ago, if the evil he did to the earth did not vanish with him, what new, unknown terror will he release now? 

And who is here to save the world of man? These few kingdoms, principalities, city-states that cling to the world by fingertips. Denethor is old, out of touch, some whisper that his mind is gone. Gríma thinks the sons may have stood a chance, but Boromir has gone north and may be dead for all anyone knows, and Faramir is shunted to the side by the mad father.

Then there’s Théoden. When Gríma first arrived, Théoden was a capable warrior and marshal of his people. And there is part of Gríma that still thinks: _He is my king._ It is why he will not let the man go cold, or be left in old clothes, or remain unattended. Because he is still Éomarc’s king and that means something. But all of Théoden’s power, even in his youth, is nothing compared to the Dark Lord. And even before the spellwork began, Théoden’s might was failing. And Théodred? Gríma snorts. He was never inspirational material. Éomer might have been a good king, but it’s too late now.

What strength is left in the world of man? 

The breeze picks up. Scatters wilting daisies over dusty roads and lanes of Edoras. They are taken off to some place where they will land, forgotten and crumble into dust.

Théodred is buried well. Interred with his sword, his armour, his spear, saddle, reigns, a bag of silver, urns of wine, three goats, and his shield. He would have been buried with his horse but Brego could not be found and even if he was found, he is a young stallion. It wouldn't be right. Théodred is washed, richly dressed, wrapped in linens and finely woven tapestries. As is right, and fitting, for the son of a king. Gríma ensures there can be no cause for complaint. No reason for Théodred to rise up, pointing decayed finger, to say he was ill treated in death. 

Éowyn, the only kin present and able to walk to the barrows, stares at the carved stone covering the mouth of the tomb. Etched around the edge are scenes of battle, images of a life no longer being lived. The center is the white horse of Eorl. 

Gríma had suggested Theodred’s name be included so others, in the future, would know who lay there. ‘They’ll know,’ had been the response. ‘We’ve always known who is buried in the mounds of the kings. We will always know.’ 

The lament Éowyn sings is echoed by the other women present. A haunting of voices that make hearts tremble. Afterwards, she remains staring at stonework. The only testament to her cousin’s life that will remain once those who knew him are dead. All wait on her to move. The court, members of the king’s household, various nobility and lesser-nobility of Edoras and surrounding villages, the generally voyeuristic public who wished to mourn their prince. 

She is motionless. Could be carved from the same stone covering Théodred’s grave. 

A few glances up and down the ranks of Théoden’s household but no one steps forward. A series of meaningful looks cast at one another.  _ You interrupt her grief; no _ you  _ interrupt her grief.  _ Gríma looks to the cloudy sky. Rain, he thinks glumly. Or maybe it’s just Sauron. 

Or Saruman. 

It doesn’t matter. The fact that rain will happen, regardless, is what matters. He dislikes rain, it makes him anxious. It will also make for a damp evening, the kind that allows chill to enter bones and stay trapped in there. 

Stepping forward Gríma clears his throat. ‘My lady?’ 

Éowyn half-turns, ‘I would stay a while with my cousin. You may go.’ 

The lords make various murmured noises of apology, acquiescence, solidarity in her mourning, general grievances against the dark lord, sad sighs of how the young die while they linger with their hoary beards and bad knees. The crowd of mourners begin a slow line back up to Edoras leaving Éowyn behind. She stands with several guards of her uncle’s household. A stark figure in black against Éomarc’s golden land. 

Gríma, before he turns to follow the others, ‘I wouldn’t stay out here long, my lady. It is not safe.’ 

Éowyn nods. 

Receiving no further response Gríma returns to the path that weaves between the barrows of the dead. The ghosts of past kings whistle through grass, between mounds, rocks, brush. Sometimes he thinks the dead kings stalk his footsteps. He wakes with dead wraiths around his bed, trying to strangle him. 

He ruefully rubs his neck. 

Glancing over his shoulder there is Éowyn beginning her walk back to Edoras with the remaining guards trailing behind her. Lopping up to her is Gundahar, helmet tucked under his arm. He ducks his head in a manner of someone trying to catch the attention of a person doggedly ignoring them. 

Gríma raises an eyebrow at the scene as he turns back around. 

When Gríma was a boy, no more than five or six, his mother began a quilt. She intended it for him as Ceridwen had made similar for his brothers and sister. He remembers the squares laid out on the earth floor, her shooing away the dogs so they wouldn’t track mud over the fabric with their dirty paws. She would carefully arrange them to form a repeating pattern that was like grass waving in the midst of a summer storm. Perfectly repeating, with neatly ordered uses of diamonds, hour-glasses, half-triangles and so on. She told him there was a plan for it. 

Only, she never seemed to find time to finish it. For a few years, when he was still young, he would take out the basket on a winter’s month and line up the squares exactly how Ceridwen had them then look over to see if she was watching. Hoping she would take them up and start again on the project. Instead, she would say,  _ You’ve such a keen memory. Such attention to detail.  _ Then, she would sort-of smile before going about her business. Spinning yarn, mending clothes, whatever needed doing that didn’t involve the perfectly ordered squares of fabric collecting dust and soot on the floor. 

Éomer returns the next evening, far sooner than expected. Evidence of his uncertainty, Gríma thinks. Éomer comes and goes with increasing frequency when there is something happening and he doesn’t know what he is to do about it. 

However, it is night and everyone is still thinking of the funeral and so there is a tenderness to the air. A rawness that sits between people. Occupies empty spaces on mead hall benches. Éomer’s restless energy is a studied contrast. It knocks up against the sides of the building, somehow makes the silence loud. 

‘I am going to sit with my uncle,’ Éomer tells Gríma. They’ve run into each other outside Meduseld. Gríma leaving to tend to Saewine, Éomer returning from presumably a similar duty. He smells of hay and his face is caught in the golden light of lanterns lining the main path to the hall. 

‘That is good of you,’ Gríma replies. 

Éomer squints at him. ‘I heard you sit with him sometimes, of an evening.’ 

‘When he asks for me, I do. Sometimes he wants company.’ Gríma glances up and down. ‘Usually quieter company.’ 

‘What does that mean?’ 

‘What it sounds like. He’s old and tires easily. Be gentle with him.’ 

‘He’s not a fragile statue,’ Éomer snaps. ‘Or he wasn’t, until you got your claws into him.’ 

Gríma side steps Éomer. Their shoulders bump, a jarring motion. Running into Éomer, even in slow motion, is not unlike running into a wall. 

‘I’ve never called him such,’ Gríma responds, dusting his arm, straightening his robes. 

‘No. You don’t need to. You just whisper into his ear that he is old, infirm, that he needs his rest and shouldn’t be overburdened-’ 

‘Éomer, he  _ is _ old.’ 

‘He is, but he was never infirm. He was never ill the way he is now.’ Éomer grabs his arm before he can escape towards the stables. A warm grasp. Like fire. Guards watch, a few men stumbling out of a pub smack each other and jerk their heads towards them. Gríma dearly wishes this argument weren’t so public. Éomer, leaning in, hisses against Gríma’s ear: ‘Words have power. They can alter a person on their own with no other leechcraft necessary. I know you, of all people, are aware of this.’

Gríma opens his mouth to reply but cannot think of what to say. There is something nesting beneath that statement, beneath the entire conversation and he cannot grasp what it is. He thinks it is something to do with words, yes, and their power, and how a person can come to know themselves through how others speak of and to them. 

This sort of inquiry makes him uncomfortable and he’s never wished to search out why. 

Pulling himself free he huffs, ‘You seem to have forgotten your manners, my lord. Did you leave them somewhere in the hinterlands?’

‘Mayhaps,’ Éomer sneers. ‘I was in the Wold. Maybe I left them there. They can make friends with your sense of honour, which I can only assume you left behind when you took yourself south.’ Spinning on his heel he takes steps two at a time and is soon disappeared from sight. 

Gríma sighs. Glances over to the few onlookers remaining. ‘What?’ 

They scatter into the night. 

A lunchtime meal, the king’s meat is brought to table with expectations that the entire household join him. Háma, in his purview as doorwarden and de-facto seneschal for Théoden, sees it as his duty to maintain some semblance of normalcy and ritual. Therefore, at table is Théoden-kunning, Éowyn, Gundahar, Gríma, Háma and various others who make up the king’s retinue. Éomer is also present, though as Third Marshal he has long been head of his own household. 

Gundahar, ‘I thought you sang beautifully.’ 

Éowyn, ‘It was my cousin’s funeral.’ 

Háma rolls his eyes over his meat. Éomer makes a face as he stabs a turnip. Gríma snorts. He thinks he wouldn’t give this up for the world. Ah, the joys of  _ family  _ meal time. 

Háma to Gríma, ‘How are the accounts?’ 

‘That is possibly the dullest topic you could have chosen.’ Gríma tears himself a piece of bread. Takes a bite. ‘They’re well, though, thank you for asking.’ 

‘Nothing’s walked off recently?’ Éowyn asks, leaning forward to make a face of suspicion at him from around her uncle. 

Gríma, ‘Other than Gundahar’s wit?’ 

Éomer snorts, half-smiles before taking a long drink of ale. Gríma grins. Down the table Gundahar scowls: ‘Boil your head, Gríma.’ Éowyn sits back with a laugh.

The sound of quiet eating falls upon the table interrupted only by occasional comments on the food. The mutton, turnips, beans, carrots, bread, ale, wine. Gríma picks at his plate, a habit that leads to strange looks at the best of times. He orders the food and scoots pieces away so they don’t touch each other. He decides to eat the beans first. Then the carrots and turnips. The mutton he is less interested in. 

Éomer watches. Gríma stares back. Éomer lifts an eyebrow. Gríma mimics the expression. Háma leans around Éomer, ‘If you’re not keen on the mutton I’ll take it.’ 

Gríma silently pushes his plate down the table to allow Háma to stab the meat off onto his. 

‘We’re going to need reinforcements at the Ford of Isen,’ Éomer says when the cheese is brought out. He cuts himself a few slices, makes a neat stack in front of him. ‘Erkenbrand can only hold it for so long.’ 

‘Did the orcs retreat?’ Gríma asks. 

Éomer grins with an unpleasant expression. He carefully, and slowly, eats a slice of cheese before replying. ‘They did. Scattered to the wind. Had Théodred not fallen we would have sealed the victory, I’ve no doubt.’ 

Gríma makes a noise of feigned approval and sits back with his wine as Háma and Gundahar dig in for details. This is not a good sign, he thinks. Sure, Saruman’s forces at the Ford wouldn’t have been great, and they would have been entirely infantry against the mixed ones of Erkenbrand and Théodred. But surely they could have held the line. Surely they could have forced the Ford of Isen open. Even for a day.  _ Especially  _ once Théodred fell. He knows well what the loss of a leader will do to a company’s morale and communal courage. 

He’s told Saruman multiple times, and in _ great  _ detail, about the importance of making sure his men know what to do when fighting Éothéod. If he remembers rightly, he drew it out. Made a visual demonstration of how to take Éomarc. Namely, Théoden (now, Éomer), cannot hole up, with full cavalry, in Helms Deep. And he will, the second he thinks it’s called for. He’ll reinforce Edoras, already a formidable city to take, then hunker down in his mountain fortress to pick off the enemy army in piecemeal. 

No matter which way the situation is sliced, numbers will not win the day. And, he worries, Saruman is banking on sheer might being all that is needed. Gods, Gríma’s never been a soldierly sort, but he knows something of tactics and much about operations. One doesn’t advise a king like Théoden for fifteen years without becoming versed in these matters. He could devise a supply train for any army, over any terrain, for any given length of time in his sleep. 

Perhaps this was a one-off. He chews on the inside of his cheek. 

‘-- and so if there’s to be open warfare,’ Gundahar says. ‘How big of a force should we expect?’ 

Éomer shrugs. ‘Hard to say. It was a few hundred at the Ford, but that was exploratory. I’m certain there’s more where they came from.’ 

‘Plus others,’ Éowyn says. Éomer lifts an eyebrow. ‘The wildmen are in their ranks as well.’ 

‘Sure,’ Éomer nods. ‘But only a handful.’ 

‘It still changes the dynamic of the battle, I would think.’ 

‘Not meaningfully. They’ll fall in line with the orcs. But,’ Éomer glances towards Gríma. ‘It’s neither here nor there. We can discuss something else.’ 

Éowyn smiles, but it smacks of brittleness. The conversation shifts, moves on. Éowyn remains quiet for the remainder of the meal. Occasionally helping Théoden drink his ale and eat his food. A mother tending a child. 


	8. The Road to Edoras

Mithrandir claps hands on knees, ‘Tell me more. How came you to Rohan? Have you met with the horse lords?’ 

‘Through Emyn Muil,’ Aragorn says. ‘On foot for much of it. We came upon Lord Éomer two days ago and he gave us leave to journey through the land, as well as a gift of three horses. We’ve, um, lost the horses.’ 

‘He’s not going to be best pleased,’ Boromir mutters. ‘Second horse of theirs I’ve lost.’ 

‘How so?’ 

‘They lent me one when I went north to Imladris, but I lost it while crossing the Ford of Greyflood. Now Sigegard,’ he shakes his head with a smile. ‘I’m going to cause an international incident at this rate. Éomer will come for my head. I’ll have every law pertaining to the care and gifting of horses in Rohan lectured at me by the king’s advisor.’

Gimli laughs, slaps his back. ‘Don’t worry, we can take them.’ 

‘I’m not worried about the advisor. It’s Éomer you have to watch out for. Cunning bastard. I say with all due respect.’ But he laughs as he speaks and Boromir feels the lightness of the air. As if the trees themselves are feeling some new happiness. 

‘But what do you know, Gandalf?’ Legolas asks. ‘What have you heard? You met with Galadriel, you said, after you smote foul Balrog upon cold mountainside. A feat I suspect young Master Gamgee would put to song.’ 

‘And will,’ Gimli says. ‘Once they’re back again with us and hear of it.’ 

Mithrandir's rueful smile. Sitting back he gives a long sigh. ‘The enemy knows that the Ring is abroad. And he also knows that it's borne by a hobbit. He knows how many of us set out from Rivendell and who we each are, but I don’t think he's yet divined our purpose.’ 

‘How do you mean?’ Boromir asks. 

‘I don’t think he suspects that we are intent on its destruction,’ Mithrandir’s gaze seems to pierce Boromir’s mind. But as fast, and as harsh as that look was, it is quickly replaced with a warm smile. ‘In fact, I don’t think it would ever occur to Sauron, even in his darkest dreams, that we seek to destroy it. But, because he believes that we mean to use the Ring against him, he assumes that we mean to wage war.’

‘So he therefore lets loose war in return.’ 

‘Exactly. We have forced his hand sooner than he intended to play it. Wise fool is Sauron - it would have been better for him if he focused his might on preventing entry to Mordor instead of spreading it out to sow destruction and death. But, his distraction is our boon.’ Mithrandir pauses, turns his staff around in hand. ‘A dark joke, perhaps, but some of his hopefully future failure will be in part thanks to Saruman.’ 

‘But - Saruman's a traitor,’ Gimli frowns, ‘he joined with Sauron, I thought?’ 

‘A traitor to all.’ A sad shake his head. ‘Most terribly, a traitor to himself. His heart and mind are in darkness, and it was his pride that brought him thither. When I was made his guest,’ the last word half-sneered. ‘Back in September, he laid out his purpose in an attempt to persuade me to join with him. He said, and I’m roughly paraphrasing, _I mean to have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see. My high and ultimate purpose is: Knowledge, Rule, Order; all the things that we have so far striven in vain to accomplish, hindered rather than helped by our weak or idle friends._ Saruman is proud and arrogant and vain. But, for all that, I hope he may yet see that there is light.’ To himself, ‘I hope one day he will remember it and know its warmth against. Before it’s too late. But!’ Back to the hunters, ‘What is important for us to know is that Saruman is seeking the Ring at the same time as he seeks to take Rohan and make her his.’ 

Boromir feels expected, heated embarrassment. For how different is he from Saruman? His own thoughts had been _I will use the Ring for a high purpose of order and bettering the world._ To be so blinded by the glamour of the trinket. He shakes his head. Wonders aloud, ‘Does Sauron know of this treachery?’

‘He surely must,’ Legolas says. ‘He has spies of birds and winged beasts. He would know.’ 

‘And the seeing stones,’ Aragorn adds. Taking out his pipe he packs it, lights it, blows out a soft stream of smoke. ‘That’s how they communicate, isn’t it?’ 

Mithrandir nods. Again, a deep glance at Boromir who isn’t sure what to make of it. If the wizard wishes to say something he should say it. Gods know Boromir isn’t able to read minds. Unlike the old man before him. And his father. And his brother, more or less. 

Too many people in his life with that particular skill set. He assumes they must be suitably comfortable with his withering views. 

‘I suspect Sauron is well aware,’ Mithrandir agrees. ‘So, he has Isengard to fear as well as Minas Tirith. If the White City falls it will go ill for Saruman-’ 

‘Definitely not top of my mind to be concerned over,’ Boromir mutters. Aragorn snorts. Mithrandir hushes them. Thinking though Saruman's plan, Boromir isn’t sure if he would call it bold or stupid. ‘So, Saruman’s running a parallel attack? Ring and Rohan. All in order to set himself up as a contender for title of Dark Lord? That seems, um, bold. Shall we say. If one thing goes wrong it collapses in its entirety.’

Mithrandir lifts an eyebrow, clearly waits for more.

‘I mean, it doesn’t make sense.’ Boromir adds with a shrug, ‘I can’t speak to his strategy, but I suspect the operations and tactics side won’t hold up. Mordor’s army is large in a way that the mind cannot fully comprehend. Even if he did take Rohan, and gods’ forbid Gondor falls, Sauron will soon deal with his traitorous servant.'

'If Saruman had the Ring,' Aragorn says. 'I would think he'd have a better chance of taking Sauron. How big is Saruman's army?’

Mithrandir taps his staff for a minute then shrugs, ‘I couldn’t say. When I was a _guest_ there he was just beginning to build it.’ 

Boromir frowns, ‘He’s building an army? Fresh?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘So, he’s running a treacherous game, with many risks, with a green army?’ 

Mithrandir smiles. ‘I’ve forgotten what it was like discussing operations with you. I have a distinct memory of you once saying, of a late king of Numenor, that he was an _absolute bastard in his stupidity._ ’ 

Aragorn gives a short, sharp laugh. Grins around the end of his pipe, his eyes are dancing in their amusement. Boromir wishes to see them like this more often. Perhaps he should dredge up the rest of his acerbic assessments of past leaders of Gondor. He has many. 

Aloud, Boromir mutters that he stands by this, though he might phrase it differently now that he’s no longer one and twenty. 

‘None of you are wrong. Saruman's plan is as bold as it is foolish,’ Mithrandir says. ‘He has grown too confident and cannot hear the council of others.’ An abrupt laugh. ‘Probably to our benefit, actually. His disdain for the horse-lords may yet be his undoing. Provided we don’t arrive too late.’ 

‘We heard things were going poorly in Edoras,’ Aragorn says, passing his pipe over to Boromir. Gimli motions at Aragorn to pass over his pipeweed. 

‘Poorly, indeed,' Mithrandir agrees. 'Which is a lesson for me. I also underestimated a horse-lord and now we must make haste to put right what I let continue.’ 

‘And last night,’ Gimli says, blowing out smoke. ‘Was it you we saw or Saruman?’ 

‘It was not me,’ Mithrandir shakes his head. ‘Therefore it must have been Saruman. Eager to get his hands on the Ring, no doubt. Therefore he knows his venture has failed. Well, well, so be it. There is nothing for us to do about him at the moment. Ah,’ hoisting himself up from the rock Mithrandir taps his head. ‘I am reminded. I bear messages for you all from Lady Galadriel. To Aragorn I was bidden to say: 

> _Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar?_
> 
> _Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?_
> 
> _Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,_
> 
> _And the Grey Company ride from the North._
> 
> _But dark is the path appointed for thee:_
> 
> _The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea._

No, sir, before you ask, I am not parsing your riddles for you. To Legolas she sent this word: 

> _Legolas Greenleaf long under tree_
> 
> _In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!_
> 
> _If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,_
> 
> _Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.'_

Legolas wrinkles his brow. ‘Dark are her words yet of them I make no meaning.’ 

‘Well, that was of little comfort or help,’ Gimli mutters. 

‘What? Would you have her speak openly to you of dark deeds, of even your death?’ Legolas asks, somewhat askance. 

‘Yes. If she had nought else to say. I would rather hear in plainly than in verse.’ 

Legolas looks at Gimli intently then away to the trees around them. Boromir thinks the dwarf right, if he is to hear of his death he’d rather it spoken simply than dressed up in finery. Something said beautifully doesn’t make the truth of it any easier to bear. 

_Dark is the path appointed for thee: the Dead watch the road that leads to the sea._ Boromir puzzles over this as the hunters gather their packs and begin picking through the forest after Mithrandir who charges ahead at a quick pace. 

‘Merry and Pippin are with Treebeard, as I have said’ Boromir hears the wizard explain to a still-worried Gimli. ‘They’re quite safe. Don’t worry, Master Dwarf, our paths may cross again. These are uncertain times. Who knows where we will all end up.’ 

_The Dead watch the road that leads to the sea._ All roads are watched by the Dead, to Boromir’s mind. There are bodies beside them, beneath them. Middle Earth has seen enough warfare and strife to make all the land a field of graves. Cover it end to end in burial mounds. Which Dead in particular are meant? 

This entire venture began with a riddle. He supposes it is only fitting that it might end with one. 

Coming out of Fangorn the sun has dipped so afternoon is fading into dusk. Within the forest time had been suspended. Outside, the reminder of their need for haste rejoins. And with it, the reminder of their lack of horses. 

‘It’ll be four days to Edoras,’ Aragorn says. ‘If we move quickly.’ Boromir and Gimli exchange dark looks. 

‘I don’t fancy running across the length and breadth of this great land,' Mithrandir replies, dryly. Before any can speak, he holds up a hand begging silence. Then, he whistles a low pitch slowly shifting to high. A musical, mesmeric quality to the tone. 

Silence. 

A breeze brushes over the land. Aragorn, standing beside Boromir, drops to the ground to press ear to earth. Boromir watches him listen to the rock. He holds up a finger. Then a second. 

In the distance, a horse whinnies. 

‘Two’s better than none,’ Boromir says conversationally. A third finger. Then fourth. 

Up over a gentle slope run four horses - the Hunter’s and a white one they had not seen before. Its coat shines like silver glinting in sunlight and he moves swift as a river. 

‘Shadowfax,’ Mithrandir says, affection clear as he pet the horse’s nose. ‘The chief of the Maeras, lord of the horses. He has ridden with me through many dangers.’ 

The five quickly mount their horses and in softening world of dusk begin their ride towards Edoras. 

They make good time and do not stop until it is well past nightfall. The low light of stars and slim moon eventually force them to stop and Mithrandir reluctantly concedes that they all need their rest. And that there's not much more than can do for the night. As is tradition, Boromir finds himself on Watch with Aragorn. They sit opposite each other, a small fire between. Boromir breaks up small twigs and chucks their pieces into the flames. They are eaten with rapacity. 

‘How are you?’ Aragorn asks, voice low. A glance at their companions who appear to be sleeping. 

‘Tired,’ Boromir says. A flash of smile. ‘But I suppose that’s a given. My arm’s well enough, if that’s what you’re asking.’ 

‘It was and wasn’t.’ 

Boromir nods. Right, of course it was and wasn’t. Aragorn fidgets with the edge of his roll which he wears around shoulders as a makeshift blanket. 

‘Amon Hen,’ Aragorn starts. Boromir nods again. Right, Amon Hen. ‘Are we - that is are you-’

‘Who is she?’

Aragorn sits back. Blinks in surprise. Who is who? Boromir motions to his own neck, indicates necklace. He hopes his face is showing something gentle on it instead of its usual seriousness. Aragorn takes off the necklace and hands it over. 

A small gem set in silver, it catches moonlight and blinks in a glistening fashion how stars wink in the fabric of night sky. He delicately traces the setting, turns it over, then back again to the front.

‘Her name?’ 

‘Arwen.’ 

‘When did you meet?’ 

‘Over sixty years ago.’ 

Boromir thinks, _Joy, before I was born._ He continues to turn the necklace over in hand. The light it gives off makes the world seem a softer and better place. Everyone should have something like this, he muses. A little piece of light that reminds you of goodness. It might save people from the dark of their fears and wants. 

Aragorn continues, ‘In Lothlórien. I was twenty and came upon her in a field. It was rather uh -’ 

‘Like a poem?’ 

Is that a blush? Aragorn’s head ducks down for a moment. ‘Yes.’ 

‘Mortal man, elven woman - it’s like that one you told me of. Beren and Luthien?’ 

‘Yes,’ further apparent embarrassment. ‘I was actually singing the _Lay of Luthien_ when I saw her.’ 

Boromir snorts. Gods, of course Aragorn was singing the _Lay of Luthien_. Of course his life is something from a legend. Boromir thinks that there’s no real poem to be made of _almost fell to the power of the Ring of Sauron and there were a lot of dead orcs around._ Instead, he says, ‘I can see how that would leave a powerful impression on someone when they’re twenty. I would certainly have subscribed it to destiny when I was that age.’ 

‘Would you have? I didn’t think that would be your approach.’ 

‘When I was twenty I was making some terribly questionable life choices with regards to love, or what I thought was love. I think, at the time, I was more in love with the idea of being in love than with any particular person.’ 

Aragorn’s expression is at once amusement and warmth. He says he’d have liked to have known Boromir when he was younger. Boromir says, ‘No, you wouldn’t have. You can ask my brother for stories. But Arwen, you met her while singing a song about her ancestors whose story would perfectly mirror your own. Good, continue.’ 

‘I might have called out to her by the name Luthien —’ 

And Boromir laughs, loudly, before covering his mouth. A guilty glance at their sleeping companions. Gods help this man, Boromir thinks, his chest tight and warm. Gods help him, he’s utterly _ridiculous_ and Boromir thinks he would relish and adore it for the rest of his days. If such a thing were possible. 

‘Anyway, I stayed but a month before I had to leave. We didn’t see each other again for thirty years.’ Aragorn pauses, plays again with the edge of his bed roll. ‘Our next meeting was quite by chance, again in Lorien. I stayed there for a season during which we plighted our troth.’ He stares at the fire. Boromir wishes he would look up. Would wear a clear expression so Boromir would know how Aragorn feels about the situation. To know how to think. ‘I left again and we have seen each other but intermittently.’ 

Gods, what a strange and wild thing. Boromir estimates that he's known Aragorn for almost a full season, as well. Maybe a little over. And yes, he believes this is a man he could love with great depth of emotion, with more feeling than what he normally feels for lovers. But he doesn’t think he could say that about himself at this precise moment. It's too soon. There are so many unknowns. 

Which is to say, having known a man for a season then deciding to forsake immortality for him? There must be something else driving her choice. Not that Aragorn couldn’t engender such love or devotion from someone, Boromir believes him manifestly able to procure that, but it’s such a short amount of time in which to make such a huge, unalterable decision. 

Perhaps, she wants an out from immortality for some reason and sees this as an opportunity. Perhaps, she does not wish to go to the West with her people, or there is something that haunts her and death seems a reasonable respite. All idle speculation of course, but oh, is he _deathly_ curious. 

He says, ‘I would like to meet her. More especially since she is to be Gondor’s queen.’ 

At this Aragorn does look up, startled, guilty. ‘What I said at Amon Hen remains true.’ 

Boromir nods, begins breaking another stick into smaller sticks. ‘I suppose, since you’re often away, there’s an understanding of some sort? One or two of my officers have that sort of agreement with their wives.’ 

Aragorn tilts his head, considers Boromir for a long moment. Boromir cannot read his face and wishes he knew what the other man is thinking. Those mesmeric eyes. He blames everything on the eyes. 

‘Understanding,’ Aragorn draws out the word. ‘I suppose you could term it such.’ 

Boromir puts the recently created smaller sticks into the fire. 

‘What I said on Amon Hen remains the same,’ Aragorn repeats. 

‘I’m more vegetable growth than anything when it comes to these things,’ Boromir says after a moment of thought. ‘For my part nothing has changed either. But, in this area of my life, I move with less speed and greater care. Certainly more so than when I was younger. Which is to say, if I had hypothetical immortality, I wouldn’t be giving it up after a mere season.’ 

A full smile as Aragorn laughs the words _vegetable growth._ To which Boromir replies, miffed, ‘Well, it’s true. I’m swift to act and hot headed on some things, but in this I'm a turnip.’ 

‘We’ve found your new name.’ 

_‘No._ ’ 

‘Turnip and Otter.’ 

Boromir points at Aragorn, ‘You had better beware, my lord, for you will be next.’ A thought occurs, ‘Back in Fangorn, when I asked about the offer Lady Galadriel made and you replied that we do not have the right to decide who lives and dies - as king…’ he trails off, uncertain of how to phrase his question. Indeed, he isn't sure he entirely knows what it is he's trying to ask. Across from him, Aragorn goes still. Stone still. Marble of Minas Tirith still. They watch each other. Boromir flounders for words. Tries, 'Kings, you know, make such decisions —' 

Aragorn interrupts, though he speaks with great care: ‘I think no man has the right to decide who lives and dies. If a man is placed before me, and I am the one who must deal out judgement, it is not my place to decide when his death should be.’ 

‘But if it’s justice -’ 

‘I do not believe that is justice. I don’t believe such punishments change or deter violence. They do bring people shame. And shame, from what I have seen, is one of the biggest harbingers of evil acts. It is born in public but lived out in private where it can warp a person’s sense of self and how they see the world. Justice that begets more violence isn’t justice.’ 

Boromir blinks. Taken aback he finds himself unable to speak for a moment. Aragorn waits with great patience. Finally, Boromir asks, ‘What if this man committed a crime? What if he is a murderer?’ 

‘It still is not for me to decide.’ 

‘But as king, part of your role is to dispense justice. As the representative of all parts of society bound up in one person you are both the part that requires justice and the part that brings it.’ 

Aragorn’s lips thin into a line then almost disappear. He shifts, stares into the fire. Boromir licks his lips, worries he’s offended the other man. Do elves not execute? He supposes they might not. It had never occurred to him that there would be people who did not deal with murderers, turn coats and worse, without rope or sword. There are some crimes, Boromir would argue, that are so heinous there is nothing for it but death. When a man steps outside humanity, what else are you to do with him? 

‘What would you do with the murderer?’ Boromir asks. ‘Standing before you is a family who has lost someone - a father, a mother, a child. They deserve recompense do they not? Does the murderer’s life have more value than their loved one’s?’

‘I never said it did. As in all cases, I would weigh options carefully.’ 

‘You would have to choose. At some point in this, you will have to decide and that man’s future is in your hands, whether you like it or not. So is the family’s, to a certain extent. That is the nature of kingship. Making decisions that rule the fates of men.’ 

Aragorn’s jaw tenses. He looks out to the dark planes, those shadows of grass swaying in a gentle night breeze. Standing, he dusts himself, says he’s going to for a walk. Boromir, suddenly antsy, ‘Don’t go far. It’s not safe.’ 

Aragorn stands at the edge of the fire light and looks at him. Boromir does his best to hold Aragorn’s gaze but it’s a heavy thing to clutch. He eventually looks away, to the collection of firewood, the low flames licking remaining sticks. 

‘I’ll stay close,’ Aragorn says before he disappears into the velvet night. ‘I’m not that easy to get rid of.’ 

Boromir turns the conversation around as he dismally prods the fire. He gingerly admits that had someone else been him, at Amon Hen, he knows what his first thought would have been. A traitor to the group, to their cause, and all —

Most likely he’d have sent this hypothetical person on their way. Given them an earful then a boot. Because quests and missions with stakes this high cannot afford weakness or mistrust. 

But Aragorn never seemed to consider that as an option. It was: _here is my hand, let’s get you out of the leaves and standing upright again._ Same with Gimli. There was only: _here is the path forward, we’ll help you walk it._

He doesn’t know what they would have done had things gone further along. He hopes they’d have put him out of his misery though, by the sounds of it, this isn’t likely. Would they still have given him a hand if he was fully taken by the Ring? Crawling on hands and knees like that creature Gollum? 

Probably, he sighs. Though he wouldn’t be deserving of it they’d have done it anyway because that is the kind of men Aragorn and Gimli are. Legolas, on the other hand, Boromir suspects he is the sort to take few prisoners. But then again, who knows. 

A crack of a twig, purposeful, and Boromir glances over to find Aragorn emerging from the grasses. There are burs on his boots and hem of his cloak. Settling back in his spot he begins to pick them off and flick them into the fire. 

‘I would spare him,’ Aragorn says. ‘This murderer of ours.’ 

‘And if the law dictates his punishment should be death?’ 

Aragorn shrugs, ‘I would make a new one. Kings can do that, yes?’ 

Boromir snorts. Mutters that he’d have to get it past the council and _good luck with that._

‘You would have him executed?’ 

‘If he is guilty and that is what is required, then yes.' Boromir watches Aragorn's face, but there is no clear expression of approval or disapproval. Just interest. 'Obviously, if there are extenuating circumstances I would take them into consideration. But on the whole, yes.’ 

Taking up a twig, Aragorn chews on the end in thought. With a wrinkle of his nose, as if to indicate jest, he says, ‘Good thing for the murderer I’m king.’ 

Boromir lets out an abrupt laugh. Quickly covers his mouth and glances around. They share an awkward smile. Getting up, Aragorn goes to Mithrandir’s pack and deftly procures a flask. He shakes it with an impish look. 

‘For old times,’ Aragorn asks. 

‘Hollin wasn’t that long ago,’ Boromir happily replies. 

Aragorn whispers, ‘Don’t tell the wizard.’ Boromir grins. Their fingers brush as the flask is passed between them. Around them, the hushing of wind through the grasses of Rohan. The sweet smelling sea of green they’ve been swimming through. The sky is pricked out in silver of stars and moon. A heavenly covering of soft darkness. 

The next morning Gimli says, ‘You know, I think you’ve grown since we first met.’ 

To which Boromir replies, ‘I’ve not. I’m fairly certain I’ve been the same height since I was nineteen.’ 

Gimli rolls his eyes. Declares the Lord of Gondor knows well what he means. Pats Boromir’s good arm before walking over to Legolas, who is readying the horses. Boromir isn’t sure he does know what Gimli means. He thinks this is just his luck. Have one meaningful conversation with someone and half the world hears it. 

‘Have I grown?’ he asks Aragorn, who is tired and resting his forehead against the saddle. 

‘In height? No. Why?’ 

‘Gimli says I have and no he didn’t mean height.’ 

‘Ah well,’ Aragorn yawns as he pulls himself onto Arod. ‘I mean yes, you have. But I would argue that we all have. It'd be strange if we hadn't. Gimli certainly has.’ 

Across their small camp is Gimli complaining with great gusto to Legolas about the folly of riding horses. ‘Yes,’ Boromir agrees. ‘To the great horror of his father, I’ve no doubt.’ 

Aragorn, with mocking solemnity, ‘May we all live to grow to become great horrors to our fathers.’ 


	9. The Unofficial Arrest of Éomer

The lagurocc is an outcropping of chalk that sits north of Edoras between the capital and the first hidage of the Westfold. The bone white rock juts up from Éothéod’s fertile ground, half covered in heather. Etchings of men meeting in council run around the bottom, softening with each passing year. 

It was a summer Witan three years past and Gríma was leaning against the rock, chewing on the end of his pipe, pondering what made Brego son of Eorl choose this particular place for Éomarc’s annual meet. Edoras was the favoured city of Brego, but had yet to be declared the country’s capital. It still shared that dubious honour with Aldburg. 

Deciding it had something to do with geographic distribution of the population at the time, Gríma watched the crowd gather. Thanes, chieftains, important families, interested folk within a day or two ride of the lagurocc. It was as much a formal legal ceremony as a festival. New laws were struck, sure, but more importantly, new marriages were bargained and old rivalries and friendships were continued. 

As Gríma tapped out his pipe, Háma picked his way through the crowd making inevitable progress towards the king’s advisor. 

_You,_ Háma greeted with a half-bow. _It’s close to time. Shouldn’t you go to the king?_

_I was enjoying my last moments of relative peace before descending into the pit of inter-familial legal battles._

Hama grinned, _About that, Éothain wanted to know if you wished to place a bet on Ælfric being reelected to the Small Council._

_I wish no such thing. It’s a given._

_He and Torald are at odds._

Gríma sighed, pushed himself off the edge of the rock, dusted down his robes. _Ælfric and Torald have been at odds since the day they were born._

_My father declared it a grand family tradition._

A lifted eyebrow. Gríma sniffed delicately then said, _I suppose a family must have some entertainment in the winter months. Plotting intricate legal arguments for why their nemesis shouldn’t be elected is as fine a hobby as any._

From afar, in the melee of the crowd, a still able-bodied Théoden called for Gríma to join him. The sun was between horizon and noon, the hour to formally begin the Witan. Which means the king’s laghmaþer must open the ceremonies and serve his office by speaking the current laws for all to hear. 

Háma, watching Gríma walk off towards the king, called after him: _Save the legal disputes till gone dinner. We all should have some ale in ourselves before we listen to arguments about hedge placements and who stole whose cow._

_If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re making light of our fine and sacred traditions._

Háma shrugged. A man can speak the truth can he not? Sure, Gríma replied, but he’d make no promises. These things depend on his inclination once the crowd assembles. _I must feel these things out, see what the animal spirit of the gathered people is thirsting for most._

It’s raining the morning Éomer thinks to tell Gríma that he allowed several strangers to wander off through Éomarc without so much as a by-your-leave. Even, that he went so far as to provide them horses to better enable their errand, about which he is incredibly vague. 

‘This contravenes the king’s law,’ Gríma snaps. The Small Council, aside from the marshals and Gríma, is composed of the Thanes and Chieftains chosen at the last Witan. As it's near time to sow, many are home therefore, at present, the council numbers seven. Gathered in the main hall of Meduseld, they're crowded at a table, idly passing ale and food up and down. Théoden, having spent the previous night without sleep, is absent. A not unusual occurrence. 

‘It contravenes a law you persuaded my uncle to put in place,’ Éomer snaps back. ‘And one that wasn’t elected last summer so isn’t, strictly speaking, legal.’ 

‘It contravenes a law that has been in place before, and for which there is precedent established for implementation in times of war without waiting for the Witan.’ 

‘It contravenes a law that has not been used in over ninety years that you dredged up from the depths of gods’ know whose memory in order to reduce me and Erkenbrand, not to mention our thanes, to couriers rather than marshals.’ 

Gríma leans away a fraction, wishes they held council with proper chairs instead of benches. He likes to press his back into something firm when facing down angry lords. 

‘I am sorry you see it that way, lord Éomer. But, regardless of how you wish to interpret the motive for its resurrection, you contravened our law.’ 

Éomer adjusts himself, rests elbows on the table and points at Gríma, ‘I represent the king in his absence, as you know. I judged these men to be trustworthy and friends of Éomarc. Gods above, Gríma, one of them was lord Boromir son of Denethor.’ 

Gríma lifts an eyebrow. This is interesting news. He did not think Boromir would be returned to the south so soon. His journey ahead looked to be fraught and arduous. He files it away for later analysis. ‘And who were the others? An elf and a dwarf, you said.’ 

‘And another man. From the north.’ Éomer pauses. Evidently thinking through how much to divulge. Gríma waits. ‘They were seeking their friends who were kidnapped by Saruman’s orcs.’ 

‘We’ve been over the issue of the orcs-’ 

‘Not to my satisfaction.’ 

Gríma holds up a hand, Éomer bites back whatever he was about to say. ‘Well, let us put a pin in that particular disagreement, for the moment. No matter their mission, no matter who they are, it is law that they are to be brought before the king to be granted leave to travel through our land.’ 

‘As I said, I represent my uncle in my role as third marshal of the mark. As his representative I deemed it unnecessary to delay them. Besides, lord Boromir was here not six months ago and gained leave to travel our lands at that time. It was you who granted it him.’ 

‘I remember. He took one of our horses.’ 

‘I think he lost it.’ 

General chatter erupts down the table from those who had been watching the exchange with great interest. It mostly concerned the lost horse. 

Gríma tilts his head to the side, considers Éomer for a long moment. The next immediate move, he suspects, will be Éomer backing down. Unless provoked otherwise. Éomer generally recognizes a lost battle. Long term? Gríma suspects he will return to the Eastfold to marshal his people. He has already moved them as far west as he can manage. But, he has yet to call for a select levy. Which surprises Gríma. Perhaps Éomer has been waiting for a more overt sign from Saruman. 

A sign that has now been given in spades, at this point. 

Gríma presses the matter, ‘As you broke the king’s law you must pay your weregild—’ 

‘I need not submit myself to you,’ Éomer snarls. Which prompts the council to become terribly interested in the woodwork, ceiling, tapestries along the walls. Gríma sits perfectly still and smiles. 

‘I’m merely the messenger, my lord. The weregild will be decided by your uncle the king.’ 

‘You mean it will be decided by you.’ 

Gríma glances around at their discomfited colleagues. Makes a sign that the meeting is adjourned. Gathering his papers he says, ‘We’ll meet again tomorrow. Hopefully tempers will have cooled and actual work can be done.’ 

Not halfway back to his office Éomer grabs Gríma’s arm, spins him around so they are facing each other. The man’s fury rolls off him in waves and Meduseld is suddenly filled with a great and terrible quiet. Gríma has heard about boats on the sea losing wind so they are without means of movement. Stillness pervades the ship, drives men to madness. 

Meduseld feels to be a silent ship on the grassy sea of Éomarc. It is as if the world has disappeared itself leaving them alone. Éomer’s face is close to him, noses practically touching. Gríma’s heart speeds up. His jaw tenses. He looks at Éomer’s eyes which are like fire then away, to the hall that is conveniently empty. No one around to bear witness. Gríma is simultaneously thankful and not thankful at all. 

‘One of these days,’ Éomer hisses, ‘You will get what is coming for you. No spellwork or legal maneuvering will save you.’ 

Gríma swallows. Wills himself to maintain composure. ‘Is that a threat?’ 

Éomer doesn’t reply. Breathing out slowly, Gríma wants to detach Éomer’s hand from his arm, which is fierce like a brand. How it holds him in time and space. But he can’t move, only speak. He forces himself to be all mildness as he continues, ‘Because threatening the life of someone in the king’s hall is also against the law.’ 

‘And forswearing your oath to my uncle?’ Éomer replies. ‘Where does that fall in all of this I wonder.’ 

‘I would never forswear my oath, my lord.’ Gríma manages to hug papers to his chest with one arm. A small gesture and Éomer blinks down at them, lets go of Gríma’s arm, takes a half-step back. Though they remain standing too close for Gríma’s comfort, Éomer being a force of nature that could steal a man’s breath from his lungs. Also, probably twice his size. In terms of width. Gríma’s frame, while tall, has never been impressive. Like a heron poking about, making mischief for the frogs and fish. 

‘But, if we were to be philosophical about it,’ Gríma hears himself say, ‘oaths go both ways. They are a transaction. I offer my good and loyal service in exchange for the protection of the king. When the king is, we are speaking hypothetically of course, unable to uphold his side of this agreement he has reneged; not I.’ Taking a step back, so they are no longer so close to each other’s faces, he says, ‘I would think about my conduct and behaviour as a marshal of the Marc were I you. Something you will have ample time to do as your fate is decided.’ 

Gríma waits as Éomer processes the meaning of this. He would walk away but doesn’t think he can manage that much movement. Éomer functions differently than Saruman, who likes flattery and appeasement. How does one please Éomer? Not through any way Gríma is particularly skilled in. They have always spoken different languages. 

‘You’re arresting me?’ Éomer asks after a long moment. 

‘ _I_ am not.’ A beat. ‘Though, it would be wise to perhaps return to your rooms and not leave them for an extended duration. Guards may or may not be present.’ 

‘And if I did leave them?’ 

Gríma shrugs. ‘You can certainly make that decision, my lord.’ 

‘Do what you will, Gríma,’ Éomer says. ‘But I cannot see this going well for you. You think my uncle reneged on his oath? I can’t speak to that, for it is a matter between the two of you. But, I don’t doubt Saruman is worse an oath-keeper even than you. What happens when you are no longer needed by him?’ 

‘I repeat my thanks for your evident concern about my wellbeing. It warms the heart.’ 

‘So you admit to being employed by Saruman?’ 

‘I admit no such thing. I merely am thanking you for your apparent, and unnecessary, concern.’ Something he isn’t entirely sure what to do with. Éomer’s truths are the inconvenient sort Gríma doesn’t like to look at. 

Éomer considers him for a long moment. Whatever fury that had been in him is now gone. His face unreadable, but calm, collected. Pensive, even. His hair, caught in candle and fire light, though, that is a fierceness. It is a gold that dragons would covet. Gods, Gríma thinks absently, he could have been a good king. Provided someone kept him on track and from making promises that are difficult to unwind. Éomer, to those he likes, is a big hearted man. Sometimes to a fault. 

‘Well, better than being thrown in the larder,’ Éomer says when the silence has stretched on for too long.

‘You’re a member of the royal house,’ Gríma replies, primly. He doesn’t know where the conversation is going and cannot think how to regain control. ‘So being confined to your chambers is the appropriate course of action.’ 

‘I’m glad you’ve investigated this.’ 

‘I _am_ amenable to the larder. There’s the tack room in the stables, though I think there’s a goat in there.’ 

The front doors bang as someone either enters or leaves. This forces them back into the world. A shuddering shifting into place. No longer does it feel as if they are distended in time with no around and no place to go except to circle each other like jackals. 

Gríma tuts, taps his papers, ‘This isn’t the time for such trivial conversations, my lord. The matter before us is a grave one. I doubt your uncle will be best pleased to hear of how you are conducting yourself.’ 

‘Better a brash fool than a traitor. But I take your hint - and fear not, Gríma, I’ll not run away for I am no coward. And you’re right, this is a grave matter and, of you, I would make a grave man.’ A mildly disdainful look before Éomer spins and strides towards his rooms. Gríma remains between pillars that bracket the main hall. He closes his eyes, breaths out, thinks the silence a fragile one. He doesn’t want to break it. 

It isn’t until he is alone in his office does Gríma allow himself to appreciate the wordplay. He snorts, _a grave man indeed._ Sitting in his chair, he leans forward, presses a glass of wine to forehead, and closes his eyes. _A grave man._ He snorts again. Terrible. 

But gods, things do pile up. He doesn’t know what to do with all of them. His morning tea was but murky leaves with no tale to tell. Which instills in him a sense of dread. Greater dread than the regular dread that remains constantly in his mind. He thinks he is made of dread. Has always been made of it. Since a child and there was a sense of foreboding - every corner held a shadow, in every crevice waited a monster that was going to eat you. 

He spoke to his King of a wolf that followed but when you looked behind there was no wolf, yet you knew it was there. Your entire body knew the wolf was there, following you, hunting you. It had been no lie. And oh, yes, he knows there is no _actual_ wolf. He logically knows all sorts of things. He can be a very logical man, at times. But that doesn’t stop the animal of his mind and body from beating its rabbit heart beat. 

He blames Owensel for the wolf. His brother was one who liked a laugh and the laugh usually involved putting Gríma, the youngest, in increasingly unfortunate situations. Éomer once asked, _What is your greatest fear? If you had to pick one._ And Gríma, in a moment of brash warmth, said, _Open water._

Which is true. And also not true. 

Water, yes. Open water? He wouldn’t know. He’s never been out on it. But rivers? Ones that run swift and cold with crevices and caves in which to hide away bones and flesh? Oh yes, he has a great fear of those. 

Éomer’s weregild. A grounding thought. Banishment would be fitting, he supposes. It wouldn’t cause too much unrest, which is what he is trying to avoid and what everyone in the world seems to be seeking to cause. Must everyone be perverse in their actions? Must everyone work against him? Saruman included.

Banishment and a fine, he settles on. Banishment for allowing strangers to wander their lands, fine for threatening a life in the King’s hall. He ponders how much he should weigh himself to be worth. How much he thinks he can get away with demanding from Éomer. 

Setting his wine down, he sinks into his chair. The small wooden window of his office is propped open to allow some breeze to eek its way in and along with it comes the smell of spring grass. But no bird song, no sounds. Saruman has wrapped their world in woollen silence. 

How Orthanc is a silent place. A suffocating stonework that is at once alive and inert. It’s because the tower was carved from a single stone, Gríma thinks. There’s something about it that breathes. A slow, terrifyingly deep breath of a creature older than time. 

Brynja would say it is because stone is of the earth and the earth breathes. But Brynja is the more romantic of the two of them. He always assumed it came from being born fifteen minutes earlier — she got to see the sun first. 

He idly ponders the whereabouts of his sister. This is what happens when you marry a man with itchy feet, you never stay in one place for more than two years. Uprooted, they drift on the wind but seem happy for it. It’s been four years since they passed through Edoras. He wonders when they will meander this way again. 

If they will. 

It occurs to him that if they died there would be no reason he would hear of it. He doesn’t know how he feels about this so doesn’t. 

There was a time, Gríma can’t remember when exactly, but it was in the past. And he was somewhere with water - a lake or a river wide and slow moving. There was a harbour, or at least docks. And loons arrived to die. One by one. No one knew what was killing them but died they did. He opened one up, out of curiosity, and found their lungs to be black and hard as coal. He pointed to them and said, _That’ll be the problem._

This was one of the first years when the sky was showing signs of Sauron’s permanence and people and animals were being herded ahead of their inevitable doom which is to say they were attempting to flee but the death and destruction of Sauron follows you. His mother once said that she worried the things she fled as a young woman had infected her and she passed them on to her children who will pass them on to theirs. He had wondered what it was she spoke of but never asked for it was always clear you were never to ask anyone anything. His family was one large silent land. _Atrophied,_ he once said to Brynja. _That’s cruel,_ Brynja had replied. 

But the loons kept dying. One evening a large, elegant creature landed. Gríma watched as it raised its head and let out a long, sorrowful call. He has never known a sacred place, or a sacred thing, but thought that the bird’s final song might be as close to holy as he will ever manage. The next morning it was dead, like the others. Beautiful black plumage iridescent, and presumably it had a plan to fly home to some unknown pond somewhere else far away from where it died but it never had the chance. 

The sun that morning was red-ringed. Brynja pointed to it and said, ‘I think more than loons are going to die.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make no apologies for the anachronistic Romeo and Juliet reference.
> 
> the loon bit is shamelessly riffed from Mary Oliver's 'Lead'.


	10. King of the Golden Hall

Edoras, mid-morning, Boromir’s horse lamed itself and he was directed to the capital by a kind Lord Éomer who said, _Tell my uncle’s advisor, Gríma, I bid him give you a new horse. I’m sure he’ll oblige_ before he farewelled with a sharp, if somewhat gleeful, laugh. 

The king’s advisor was a tall, narrow, terribly angular man dressed in blacks and greys who appeared to Boromir as a moving shadow save for piercing, pale blue eyes. They were the sort that looked at all things at once and when they looked it was for a purpose. Shallow waters, Boromir decided. Or a clear river at midday. 

_Heading north, my lord?_ The man asked in Westron with a distinctly Rohirric accent. Almost melodic, with all the rounded o’s, tapped r’s, inverted v’s and w’s. Also, the tendency to always sound like they’re asking questions. Boromir refilled the ale given to him with his meal and poured another cup. _That’s quite a journey for the harvest time._

 _I wouldn’t be making it if it weren’t necessary._ He then explained Imladris and the riddle and the dreams that followed the fall of Osgiliath. He lingered longest on the battle. Then declared, _I mean to get it back._

 _Osgiliath? It would do Gondor good, that is certain, since Sauron now holds one of the only places to ford the Great River._ Then Gríma wished him well with his endeavour and said that he thought Boromir one of the few people left holding it all together. _Which must be a burden._

_I bear it well enough._

A tilted head of steady consideration. Boromir didn’t feel he was being read or peered into so much as if he was being weighed. That there were some hidden calculations being made behind the carefully neutral face. Gríma, he decided, was not a comfortable person. 

With a sudden smile, unexpectedly warm, Gríma said, _I would be glad if you visited us on your return. I would be interested to know more of the ælfin. We have only heard stories, of course. All those usual ones we Éothéod tell each other about people we consider slightly too foreign for our tastes._

Boromir didn’t know how to interpret that so glided past it. Declared that he would be happy to return. _Indeed, I mean to._ _Lord Éomer extended a similar invitation when we met by River Snowbourn._

 _I’m sure he did._ A flash of wry amusement. _Well, I look forward to your return. May you come with a solved riddle and good news._

Edoras can be seen from a distance. A large hill rising out of the plains, it is an island in Rohan’s green sea. 

‘-and what of their people?’ Legolas is asking Aragorn for details about the Rohirric as the four hunters and Mithrandir cross the plains. He does so in his usual elven manner of having no particular reaction to anything said. 

‘Well, you’ve met Lord Éomer,’ Aragorn replies, evidently bemused. ‘He’s a fairly good representative of them. Wouldn’t you say, Boromir?’ 

Boromir shrugs. ‘I assume so. I’ve only been here twice, though. The Rohirric tend to come down to Gondor, so it’s a bit different. Diplomatic protocol and all.’

Legolas nods in consideration. ‘Their language is like their land,’ he declares after a moment. ‘It rolls and sways.’ 

‘Ah, like their poem. _Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?_ ’ Aragorn quotes. ‘Where is the horse and the rider? Roughly. Direct would be “Where is the horse? Where is the rider?” But I’ve never felt that it captures the essence of the poem. The feel should be oceanic.’ 

Boromir lifts an eyebrow, ‘Is this an oft’ debated topic?’ 

‘Hardly,’ a flashed smile. ‘The Rohirrim generally dislike translations of their stories. I was told once that it reduces the beauty of their speech. Which I don’t necessarily disagree with.’ 

It’s how Haldir spoke of language, Boromir muses. Each one is built into and out of its people. Faramir once said that people are in conversation with their language and their language is in conversation with them. They inform and shape one another. 

Which is perhaps the most Faramir way to put something, he thinks with some fondness. 

Aragorn continuing, ‘The entire lament is about Eorl riding south out of Rhovanion into what is now Rohan, or Éomarc as they call it. It then recounts the history of the oath making with Gondor, but I’ve not memorized that part.’ A sly look towards Boromir, ‘A shock to some in this company I’m sure.’ 

‘They are rich in poems and songs?’ Legolas asks with great eagerness. 

‘They are. Though they do not write and do not read. Last I was here there was no written language. Though that may have changed. Théoden was a bit of a -’ he pauses for a word. ‘Well, he was raised in Gondor, shall we say.’ 

‘Our few written dealings with them are in Westron, or Sindarin,’ Boromir replies. ‘So, some at least read and write our language. I believe Théoden’s father also spent time in Gondor before taking the throne and brought back a few things.’ 

Aragorn looks out towards the east-ward horizon and Boromir wonders what his views are on this matter for it is apparent that the other man has a few. 

‘Why would they not write their own language down?’ Legolas asks. ‘Script is a wondrous art. I would be greatly saddened if Sindarin was not made manifest with ink. How many signs there are for a single object. It is a beautiful thing that _glae_ is,’ he gestures to the grasses. ‘And it is also the curves of many lines upon vellum.’ 

Boromir shrugs. He wouldn’t know. A glance over to Mithrandir indicates that the wizard is not paying attention for his gaze is firmly fixed on the unmoving point of distant Edoras. A grim expression writ across face. 

Aragorn finally looks back to his companions. ‘My understanding is that they believe their language requires movement and writing it down denies it that. Westron, however, does not. So it makes sense that they keep their few records in that. Which I’m fairly certain are only related to legal and financial matters. They would never write their histories down.’ 

‘A people’s history is a special thing,’ Gimli hums. ‘And their language and way of being. I can see why they would want such things passed down through story and song but not written so anyone can come in and know it without so much as a by your leave.’ 

Legolas is the first to see Edoras with any definition. He points eagerly ahead and to Gimli more than the others, exclaims, ‘I can see a white river descending from the snows of the mountains bold and from it issues forth such a green valley of grass.’ 

‘And Edoras itself?’ Gimli asks. 

‘A green hill rises up from plains and around it a thorny wall which would prove difficult to clamber over. I pity any who have made such an attempt in the past for their bellies would have been sorely punished for it.’ 

‘Bellies?’ 

‘They would fall upon the stakes that are walls. A terrible end I have no doubt. Within the city there are many houses with noble, thatched roofs, their frames carved with some elegance.’ 

‘Can you make out Meduseld?’ Mithrandir asks. ‘The King’s hall.’ 

‘I see a rise within the city and upon a great hall. It too is carved with elegance. It’s roof, to my eye, seems thatched with gold. The light of it shines far over the land and golden too are the posts of its doors. There men in bright mail stand. But the city, otherwise, is asleep. We are early in the morning, yet.’ 

‘The golden hall is the home of Théoden son of Thengel, King of Rohan.’ Mithrandir highs Shadowfax on faster. ‘When we come closer to the city we must ride more warily for if there is war, the Horse-lords will not sleep. Even if it seems so from afar. And when we arrive follow my lead. Draw no weapon, speak no haughty words, indeed it’s best to speak very little until we come at last to Théoden’s seat.’ 

Which is a bit much, to Boromir’s mind. Whatever Mithrandir’s ongoing distrust of the Rohirric is rooted in, it should not be forced upon the rest of them. 

Meduseld is as it was seven months ago. The hall of a dying king. Meeting them at the door is a large man, with reddish blond hair, bright eyes, broad face and ruddy cheeks. 

‘Greeting, friends,’ he says in Westron with a bow. ‘I am Háma, son of Hereword, door warden of Théoden King.’ 

‘Well met,’ Mithrandir replies with a deep nod. ‘I believe you know me and lord Boromir son of Denethor, the other three are our friends and we can vouch for them. We are here to speak with your king.’ 

Háma glances at their weapons and packs. ‘Lord Éomer told us yesterday that Lord Boromir and three companions were abroad in our land. But he spoke nothing of you, Gandalf.’ 

Mithrandir leans on his staff, suddenly aging before their eyes. Weariness drips off him. He seems to sag with many years on his shoulders. ‘I met with my friends here but recently. There is no blame to be had on Lord Éomer’s part.’ 

Háma snorts, glances at a fellow guard, their exchanged look seems to say much though Boromir cannot read it. ‘If you’re to enter our hall you must leave your weapons outside.’ 

This is new since September, Boromir frowns. Why such precautions when once they welcomed him freely? He says, ‘We’re neither strangers nor enemies. When I was here at the end of last summer I was greeted kindly and treated as a guest ought to be treated.’ 

‘Much has changed since then,’ a subtle flicker of distaste across the door warden’s face. It is mirrored by one of his companions. The others are more stoic. Or, Boromir thinks, perhaps they differ on opinion about this protocol. ‘Please, my lords, your weapons. They will be well taken care of and no harm shall come to them.’

Boromir and Gimli exchange a grudging look. Aragorn’s fingers hover antsy over sword hilt. He shifts weight, says, ‘It’s not my will to put Andurin in the hands of another.’ 

Háma shrugs, ‘It is the will of Théoden-king.’ 

Aragorn continues frowning. ‘Surely your king would not be so discourteous to a guest as to remove something sacred from him.’ 

‘This is the king’s hall, the king’s decision is final.’ Háma’s eyes narrow a fraction, ‘Discourteous would it be to go against his rule.’ 

‘Oh this is idle talk,’ Mithrandir snaps. ‘This new rule of Théoden’s is pointless but there’s no going against it. Give up your weapons, my friends, I trust the men here to guard them well.’ 

Boromir waits until Aragorn begins disarming before he follows along. Their weapons are positioned in a discreet corner away from prying eyes. Legolas, laying out the two knives gifted to him from Galadriel says to one of the guards, ‘Touch them not. They are gifts from the Lady of Lothlórien. I would not have harm come upon them.’ 

The guard’s eyes widen, whispers _aelfin_ beneath breath, then turns to a companion and gestures at them. ‘Aelfis sweordgiefu.’ General murmurs ensue. 

Háma’s voice cuts through the whispers of his companions. ‘And your staff.’ 

Mithrandir, aghast, ‘What? You would take an old man’s walking stick? That’s a step too far. Indeed, if you do take it from me please convey it to Théoden so he may use it to walk out to us for I won’t be able to go to him.’ 

Boromir lifts an eyebrow. Well, he thinks, so much for speaking gently. They’ve all done a spectacular job of making fine first impressions on the clearly beleaguered door warden. 

Háma looks at the staff, at Mithrandir with his grey cloak and hood, then to the rest of the hunters in their elven cloaks and clear lack of a recent bath. A long, slow calculation is happening. At length he jerks his head as a yes and motions for them to follow. 

As it is early morning the fires are just being rekindled and only the more forward members of the king’s household linger at tables to blink and yawn in mild interest as Háma proceeds with introductions. Théoden himself is also as Boromir last saw him, frail, faded and curling in on himself. Dressed in a rich tunic of forest green with shoulders covered in a finely embroidered cloak of deep brown and gold lined with fur, he seems to shrink in on himself. A small man in too large a seat where a crown that doesn’t seem to sit with ease upon his head. 

‘Hail Théoden, son of Thengel, lord of Edoras and King of Rohan,’ Mithrandir greets once Háma has stepped aside. They stand before the dais with light streaming down from a series of openings in the roof. It bathes the king in soft morning sun. 

Mithrandir continuing, ‘I return to you with news and aid as the storm of war has grown far enough to reach your own doorstep. I have much to speak of, will you hear it?’ 

Théoden shows no sign of having registered the words. Boromir feels pity for the old man who had once been strong and fearsome. A respected warrior, a steady and reliable general. Théoden had been a constant in his life and to see him, unable to hold court. Unable to lift his head high enough to look his guests in the eye. 

A sad, lonesome sight. 

He hopes he will never come to be in such a state. Though, he doubts he will live so long for that to happen. But, he thinks, perhaps Théoden believed the same thing. That he would fall in battle while still reaping victories and glory and not live to disintegrate with age. 

He thinks to suggest sending for Éomer, or at least the king’s advisor, when a look flashes across Théoden’s face. The old man’s eyes brighten for a moment, filled with a cold, hard glimmer and seem not to be Théoden’s eyes at all, and his lips twist up to a cruel smile. But it is a mere second then he settles back into himself. It seems to Boromir that something has entered and calmed him. 

An air of amusement suddenly fills the space around the dais. Not unlike the feeling that came off the cloaked man from the other night. The one presumed to be Saruman. 

But that makes no sense. Saruman is in Isengard, or else haunting the edges of Fangorn forest. He is not here in Meduseld. He cannot be. 

From the side halls that lead into the main room, Gríma emerges looking tired and holding a cup of tea. He is half-way to a sip when he sees them, closes his eyes, sighs in resignation, then sets the tea down on the nearest table. It is an emotion Boromir is very familiar with. 

‘ _Fy faen._ Grayhame,’ muttered beneath breath. Out the side of his mouth to a guard Gríma adds, ‘Ne hyggja, he biþ wanhydig spellin ond tídungin. _Lathspell I'd call him.'_ The guard’s face is one of evident agreement, though Boromir does not sense there to be much warmth between them. 

To the group Gríma smiles, ‘Welcome my lord Boromir, I did not think we’d have the pleasure of your company so soon.’ His eyes flick past Boromir to the others, clearly taking in Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas. A fraction of interest, perhaps even excitement, at Legolas. ‘I trust your journey north was successful.’ 

‘We do not have time—’ Mithrandir starts before Gríma cuts him off. 

‘I wasn’t finished. I was going to add that lord Boromir is always most welcome in Éomarc as are his friends.’

Mithrandir rolls his eyes. Boromir thinks he is deathly curious about the cause of their animosity. He knows Mithrandir to be short tempered at times, and not a man who will suffer fools lightly, but this seems more personal than that. 

Deciding to pretend nothing has happened Boromir replies, ‘It was certainly enlightening. I would say it’s been a journey.’ A delicate pause. Gríma is clearly waiting for more. Loath to give details in a hall full of strangers he merely says, ‘I must confess, I lost Frealaf while fording River Greyflood. I am happy to pay whatever is owed.’ 

Soft murmurs rise up from the members of Théoden’s court once this has evidently been conveyed to them. This is followed by dark looks of disapproval. Never part a man of Rohan from his horse, Boromir thinks. Never part a man of Rohan from any horse, no matter if it’s his or not. 

Gríma fidgets with the hems of his sleeves. Seems to listen to the idle chatter around them that has welled up in the silence. Then he makes a motion of dismissal, ‘Éomer has apprised us of that. There is no owing. Frealaf was freely given by the king. Though, there is never any pleasure in hearing of a loss of one of our own.’ 

‘Of course, and again, I do beg pardon. But truly,’ a glance a Mithrandir, ‘we came with news.’ 

‘Yes,’ Gríma draws the s out. ‘I have no doubt Grayhame has brought with him his usual deluge of bad news. Stormcrow, wherever you go there seems to be a trail of destruction in your wake.’ 

‘I have come to bring news and aid,’ Mithrandir replies evenly. ‘That should please even you, Gríma.’ 

‘Aid? Men and spears I would call aid. No offense meant to the lords with you, I know at least one of them to be a fine soldier and leader of men but he is surely returning home and that leaves us with you and three others. Unless they, too, part with him. But men, horses and spears. _That_ is our present need.’ 

‘The weapons laid at the doors to this hall are worth more than a company of riders,’ Mithrandir snaps back. Then, he composes himself. Turns from Gríma and addresses Théoden. ‘I would have council with you, Théoden-king. Before it is too late and we cannot undo the damage wrought by the enemy.’ 

‘And which enemy are you fighting?’ Gríma asks. ‘Éomer said something about the goldenwood. We have not heard kind tales of that place. A sorceress lives there, does she not? Weaves webs of spells with which to bind men. Manipulate them to do her bidding.’ 

‘The wise speak of what they know,’ Gandalf replies. ‘Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving man.’ Gríma visibly tenses but Mithrandir ignores him and turns back to Théoden. He holds out his staff with one hand and his other is held up. From within the hall a roll of thunder trembles the earth, the fires flare up. 

Théoden hisses, his face twists into a gnarled grin. At once too wide, yet secretive. His eyes flash, again full of cold cruelty. 

The rumbling stops. The fire settles down. And still the twisted look on Théoden’s face remains. 

Boromir looks to Aragorn whose face is both pity and horror. This is mirrored on Gimli. Legolas is, as usual, unreadable. 

Gríma, when Boromir looks to the advisor, seems both disturbed and frustrated. As if this scene is wholly expected, or was wholly expected, but now something has gone wrong. 

‘His staff,’ Gríma hisses. He glares at the guards and snaps something in Rohirric.

But the entire hall is frozen. Even Boromir cannot move. It is the external pressure. Something holding the world in its place, gently, softly, but holding it firm nonetheless. It occurs to Boromir that he has not seen Éomer in all of this commotion. Surely he would have been summoned? 

From the king out creeps a cold, slithering laugh. It makes Boromir’s skin crawl, the hairs on his neck stand on end. This here is not Théoden, he thinks. This here is someone wearing Théoden’s skin. 

‘You have no power here, Gandalf,’ a chilly voice speaks, using Théoden’s mouth. 

‘I will draw you out, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound.’ 

The crawling laugh as Théoden sits back, face fully shown to the court and it is no face Boromir has seen before. Oh, it is Théoden, but there is something, someone, behind the eyes, the smile, seeming to shift between Théoden’s features and Saruman’s. 

Gríma, back pressed against a pillar, wears a look Boromir has no name for but he thinks horror is as close a word for it. Horror and something like dawning resignation. If he had something to do with this, with Saruman’s apparent possession of Théoden, it seems to Boromir that it wasn’t what the man had expected. 

The voice of the enemy is like that. It presents an image with one hand then you reach for it and when you finally have it in your hand you see that it is rotten through. Boromir wonders if the Ring had gotten him, if he’d had ended up like Théoden. A vessel into which another being will pour itself. 

The thought revolts. He feels sick thinking about it. 

‘If I go,’ Saruman says. ‘Théoden dies.’ 

‘You will not kill him,’ Mithrandir says. He advances a step, the staff still out and hand raised, an almost welcoming gesture. ‘And you will not kill me.’ 

Another wave of thunder, cracks echo through the hall, there is a sound of scratching that dissipates into corners. Théoden screams, Saruman screams, the body pitches forward but all remain frozen and cannot go to him. Then he slams himself back into the throne, hissing words back at Mithrandir who is speaking beneath his breath. 

Saruman casts a wild eye around the hall, lands on Gríma, and seemingly implores or orders or invites action. 

But the man doesn’t move. His eyes are wide - the kind of vacant expression of someone witnessing but not witnessing. How green soldiers look when first confronted with the horrors of war. How civilians look when caught in the middle of battle.

Because none of them can move. 

Saruman’s face descends into ugly anger, he twists back to Mithrandir but before he can there is a blinding light, the grey cloak around Mithrandir’s shoulders falls away, and there is nothing but Mithrandir and Saruman then the light grows so bright there is nothing to see, only things to hear - screams, snarls, growling threats. 

Then nothing. 

They are in Meduseld and it is as it was before. Gently lit with dawn light and warm hearth fires. 

Before Boromir’s eyes Théoden seems to return to himself. No longer bent, faded with age but a youthful enough look for a man past seventy. Unable to hold himself up he slumps forward and is caught, in a sudden flurry of movement, by a young woman. 

Théoden looks at her in confusion then wonder. He whispers, ‘I think I know your face. Eowyn, sister-daughter.’ Turning to Mithrandir he says, with wonder, ‘Dark have been my dreams of late.’

With Eowyn’s movement, everyone finds their own ability to move. A flurry and a scuffle with a series of what Boromir suspects to be terribly rude words and Gríma is hauled forward yet somehow shrinking back into the guards. 

‘I had nothing to do with this,’ Gríma is snarling when Théoden looks at him. He promptly clamps his mouth shut. 

The king looks at Gríma at first with confusion, then recognition, then anger. Hauling himself up, he walks over, if a little shakily. Gríma, to Boromir’s shock, still manages yet to shrink back more. How the man can make himself so small is a wonder. 

‘You,’ Théoden hisses. 

Gríma manages to unhand himself from the guards and scuttles backwards, still on the floor, till he hits a pole. The golden wood carved with horses. Théoden, standing tall in gold, opposing him. 

‘Please, my lord,’ Gríma says. ‘I know not what spells the enemy has worked, nor what enchantments we have all been under-’ 

_‘Enchantments,’_ Théoden takes a step forward, now standing tall as he ever was. Gríma cringes, entire body tensing. Ready to dart. ‘Spells. I remember some foul craft you worked on me. You would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast.’

‘I have only ever served you my lord,’ Gríma replies. ‘Please do not send me from your side.’ 

Théoden stands over him. Staring, that slow calculating look that Boromir is beginning to think a Rohirric specialty. 

‘I would advise you to run back to your master,’ Mithrandir says. ‘Saruman does not take kindly to defeat. And I would remind him, were I you, of whatever bargain it was you had in place. He tends to forget these things.’ 

Gríma glares, ‘you lie.’ 

‘That is a word that I’ve heard from you too often and with too much ease. This here, is a snake. To slay it would be just. But it was not always as it is now. Once it was a man, and it did you service in its fashion. Give him a horse and let him go at once, wherever he chooses. By his choice you will be able to judge him.’ 

Théoden tilts his head in consideration, returns to looking at Gríma. Takes another half-step towards him which causes Gríma to flinch. Looking around Théoden frowns, ‘Where is Éomer? I thought - I remember him being here.’ 

A guard steps forward, clears his throat. ‘He’s in his rooms, my lord king. Awaiting your judgement.’ 

Théoden nods slowly. His face clears, ‘Oh yes. I remember. He threatened Gríma with death in my hall and disobeyed orders. Bring him here, Gundahar.’ 

The guard, a man of good height and bland features, bows. Departs into Meduseld. 

‘If he disobeyed orders it was on our request,’ Boromir says. ‘I asked him to allow us to go through your lands without presenting ourselves first. It was only done out of urgency.’ 

Théoden looks over at him. Blinks a few times. ‘You were here, were you not? Recently.’ 

‘This past September.’ 

‘Right. I am afraid my sense of time,’ he holds a hand out and tips it from side to side. Turning abruptly, Théoden walks back to his throne. Gríma remains frozen on the ground, back still pressed firmly into the column. 

Boromir’s first thought is, If he be a traitor then he must face the sword. Or whatever the punishment is for treason in Rohan. The natural disgust he feels for what the man has done rises up. He wants nothing to do with him, thinks Rohan should wash her hands of him. But, this is followed up with: Which of us hasn’t betrayed something, or someone? Which of us hasn’t sold things we never thought to sell? And Boromir knows he is lucky. Unaccountably so. This man shrinking into woodwork seems not to have a single defender in the hall. 

Which says many things - some may be true, others not. It does bring to mind that strange conversation they had. The allusion to things the Rohirric say about people they consider a little too foriegn. 

Still, he is a traitor, the obstinate part of Boromir insists. He made a choice to betray his king. An idea Boromir finds difficult to fathom. ( _Yet, yet, yet_ he did it. Or, almost did it. _Yet, yet, yet_ \- will he never be free of the yet-yet-yets? They’ve replaced that whisper he had named Duty. They are not whispers, but prayerful interjections that give him pause and, at times, humble him.) 

A calculating part of Boromir rises up, insisting there could be good born from this situation. If Gríma was in Saruman’s council then he would have knowledge that would benefit them. He always struck Boromir as a clever man. His letters were always snatched up by Denethor who would mutter about this thrice-damn’d advisor of Théoden (where’d he find the man? Only the gods’ know) who makes labyrinths out of words. Denethor only calls people he sort-of respects _thrice damn’d._

Boromir believes they are in need of clever men who know the workings of the enemy. 

And the longer he looks at the man cringing on the floor against the pole, clearly terrified, clearly angry, clearly hurt - he can’t help but see himself. There is the forest floor, unbridled fury at Frodo, at himself, at the Ring, at everyone. There is also fear unwinding through his stomach. Fear that he’s hurt the halfling, that he’s now an agent of the enemy. And guilt. He believes that once you start down that path to evil it is hard to turn aside. Shame surfaces. His heart beat feels very present and yet he is absent from it. There are many leaves in his head, they’re all dead. There are no slain orcs, but Boromir thinks he can smell them. 

Boromir thinks that if there is a snake in the grass, and you do not wish to be bitten, you had best kill it. 

Boromir thinks that there was a snake in the grass for the last six months of travel and it was him.

Boromir is scattered to the wind. He wants to clutch at certainty but it’s been taken from him. 

Somewhere in Meduseld a door closes. It jars Boromir back into the present. He thinks that if he was a snake who was picked up off the floor, surely that kindness can be extended. Even to those who have committed deeds he could never imagine doing. But, he never meant to sell his honour and his sense of self yet he very almost did. Gríma is an iteration of him but one whose been on this road for longer and no one has pointed out to him that there is a way off. 

Boromir clears his throat, ‘If I may speak, my lord.’ 

Théoden nods, gestures for him to step forward. 

‘I don’t know the details of what has occurred here, besides the apparent treason. Which is grave enough on its own. But, if he has been in the enemy’s council surely it would be wise to extend a hand. More important than that, he is a man of Rohan. Not an animal. He should be treated with the dignity that is due all people. I think he’s worth fighting for. Surely, in these dark times, we need not cast more shadows? And the gods’ know we need all the men we can muster. He has skills and abilities that are valuable and much needed. He may yet have a part to play that does not bring harm or deceit.’ A glance towards Mithrandir that then swings to Aragorn. ‘Who are we to deal out death and judgement?’ 

If there is a twitch of smile about Mithrandir’s lips it is gone before Boromir can even name it such. Aragorn meets his eye and there is an expression of interest within them. 

Théoden turns Gríma, who hasn’t moved. ‘Well? What say you to Lord Boromir’s offer? Or will you take a horse and be off? I will not spill your blood, do not worry. I wouldn’t soil Edoras’ good earth with it. Will you ride and fight with us or flee?’ 

Boromir bites the inside of his lip. He thinks that this isn’t the way to get the man back. If they truly want to bring someone like Gríma onside, there are better approaches. Boromir can think of a hundred, off hand. He knows men like Gríma. He’s worked with them. This is not a man who will ever be a soldier. 

Do not offer him a sword as his only form of redemption and then be shocked when he does not take it. 

But this is not Gondor, this is not his father’s hall, and so he keeps his peace. 

Gríma finally moves. It is small, he turns his head a fraction from Théoden to Boromir. His face is neutral but his eyes are made of fear. Fear of staying, Boromir thinks. Fear of leaving. The darkness caused by fear is a consuming place. It grows and haunts every house, shadows you no matter which direction you turn. 

Sliding back up the column, back still against it, Gríma continues flicking eyes between Boromir and Théoden. Then, over Boromir’s shoulder to someone. Gríma’s face alters a fraction, though Boromir isn’t sure he knows the name for the emotion. Turning, Boromir spies Éomer, newly arrived to the scene, whose expression betrays nothing. 

‘Make your decision,’ Mithrandir says. ‘Stay and fight, or take a horse, flee and pray that Saruman receives you kindly.’ 

Gríma swallows. Does not look at Mithrandir but to Boromir then Éomer then Théoden. A hesitant step to the side, away from the group. Abruptly about facing on his heel he all but runs from the hall. Along the way he trips, a guard had a foot out, the one called Gundahar, this prompts some snorts, some titters from the audience of this particular show. Gríma, sprawled on his face, props himself up enough to whip a savage look at the other man. He could curdle milk his face is so angry. 

Stepping forward, Háma reaches out his hand to Gríma who, still on hands and knees, looks at it, half-recoils, then spits at him. An utterance, Boromir cannot hear, but in any case, it is in Rohirric. Then, Gríma is up again, and out the hall doors in a flurry of cloak and tunic and a few snarled curses. 

That, Boromir thinks with an exhale, could have gone better. 

When Boromir was a boy there was a guard in Minas Tirith to whom he took a particular shine. Harroward, old, grizzled, scarred, he spoke with a rough voice and told the scariest stories. One day he caught Boromir by the shoulder and said, _Come here lad, I have something to show you._

Boromir was led through allies, up a series of closes, through the barracks and into the guard house courtyard. In the centre stood a fountain and swimming within the pool was a snake. Black, with green on its belly, it dipped through the water with graceful dignity. 

_Shouldn’t we kill it?_ Boromir had asked. 

_No,_ Harroward stern’s reply. _It’s bad luck to kill a snake. Besides, they help our chief mousers with the rat problem._

Boromir had not known that. Had stoutly declared, _I thought all snakes were bad._

 _No snake is bad,_ Harroward replied mildly, _some are poisonous, yes, but that just means they’ve a specific job to do and you should give ‘em a wide berth. We do not call falcons bad though they kill doves. Each creature has its place and purpose, even if we don’t rightly understand it._


	11. Councils of War

Mid-morning, Boromir escapes outside to breathe fresh air. He had forgotten how close mead halls are. How ontop of each other everyone is. How warm and smokey they are. It’s like being held but after a while it suffocates. Though, to Boromir’s mind, it does go a good way to explaining the general demeanor of the people of Rohan — their tendency to talk over and at each other, their ability to rub along shoulder-to-shoulder without as much conflict as one would expect. 

If you took twenty or so Gondorians and dropped them in a mead hall, told them they would be sleeping, eating and living all amongst each other, then added in the stress of war, well — it wouldn’t end peacefully, that is certain. 

‘It’s a bit close in there,’ Aragorn says from behind. Boromir, standing at the corner of the portico watching the people of Edoras and her outlying villages go about their day, turns, lifts an eyebrow. 

‘You don’t say.’ 

Aragorn hums a tune, joins him at the edge of the portico. The path swoops down from Meduseld through buildings of wood and thatched roofs, all with different carvings along doors, windows, the frames of the houses and roofs. Some are painted green and gold and a rich red-orange and periwinkle and oceanic grey. Boromir estimates there to be two to three thousand people within the city walls, perhaps one to two thousand in the villages and farmsteads outside the walls. It is the most populated space he has been in since September. 

Lothlórien was populated, obviously, but Boromir did not see many of the elves. They were not as friendly as those in Imladris. And, while Lord Elrond’s domain felt more like a proper city, it still had that unearthly stillness of elvendom. That ephemeral quality he struggles to name and understand. 

Edoras, though, Edoras feels alive. The smell of hearth fires and livestock, the sound of artisans going about their work, someone is drunk and singing, there’s laughter, carts and horses clog up small lanes, wares are being hawked, horses making manifold horse noises, chickens and geese, dogs and cats, farmers beyond the walls in the fields. Boromir is thankful to be somewhere that feels closer to home than anywhere else they’ve stayed. 

Still, it has its moments of being a bit much after the companionship of no more than eight other people at any given time for the last five months. 

‘No birds,’ Aragorn says. 

‘Birds?’ 

‘The unnatural quietude of the Wold has followed us.’ 

‘Or Saruman’s spread it over the entirety of the land.’ 

Aragorn nods, that is entirely true. He fidgets with his ring, circles it around his finger with thumb. An absent minded gesture for his eyes remain surveying the land and its people. 

‘Well, the people make up for the quiet of the land,’ Boromir says after a moment. A cool breeze gusts in from the plains, floating up and over the city. In the distance, River Snowbourne glints in sunlight. ‘It’s very pleasant, isn’t it?’ 

Aragorn glances over, eyebrows up. ‘It is.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘I think that’s the first I’ve heard you comment on the scenery.’ 

Boromir rolls eyes, declares that it’s because they’ve had a full meal, a mug of ale, and the promise of real beds for the night. ‘I’m feeling charitable.’ 

‘It was a charitable thing you did earlier. Before we were fed and housed.’ 

Ah, Boromir ducks head, coughs. He had hoped to avoid talking about that. With Aragorn, too. Had hoped to avoid needing to explain his reasoning and declare that it had nothing to do with their conversation the other night. He still stands by his views, there, but — he falters.

Aragorn nods his head to the side of the building then wanders off around the corner. Boromir huffs a sigh and follows. Thinks this could wait for another moment. He was enjoying himself for five minutes! Apparently that’s not allowed. 

Apparently, the gods believe Boromir son of Denethor needs to live in a constant state of brooding and deep contemplation. He was not made for this sort of thing. He tells the gods this, as he finds Aragorn standing towards the very back. He tells the gods that this is their fault. They were the ones who moulded him as he is. 

Gave all the meditative contemplation fibers to Faramir. 

A shadowed corner is formed from where rooms evidently push out from the main body of the hall. Additions, Boromir suspects. Some newer than others. Standing in the cool shadows, Boromir waits for Aragorn to state his intentions. 

Aragorn is suddenly very interested in the sky and the grass. He explains the history of Meduseld for a few minutes. How Brego, the son of Eorl of the Oath of Eorl fame, began it. (‘Eorl was the one in the tapestry to the right, on the horse with his eored behind him, there was a silver and green banner above him. Brego was the first to his right on the black horse. The next scene was of him and your ancestor, Cirion, making the oath.’)

He loiters on the architecture for a long moment and Boromir listens with mild interest. Aragorn’s never ending fascination with architecture is something Boromir understands to a certain degree. Though, he isn’t as invested in it as the other man, apparently. 

After a few minutes Aragorn trails off. Says, ‘I’m not really sure how to do this.’ 

Boromir blinks. ‘Do what?’ 

Aragorn’s hands flutter. Which means very little to Boromir. But the situation is one he knows well enough. He sighs, with amusement, and says, ‘Normally you just ask. I don’t know what elves do, but normally you just have to ask.’ 

‘Right.’ 

Boromir tilts back on his heels slightly, waits. Aragorn fidgets. Boromir decides that Making Declarations to Intended Lovers is going on the list of lesson plans. 

‘May I —’ Aragorn pauses. 

‘Kiss me? Yes.’ 

‘Oh good.’ 

Aragorn leans in, a hand beneath Boromir’s chin, and kisses him. A desperate warmth in the cool air of the early March day. They half-step back, further into the shadows, and Aragorn’s back bumps against the side of Meduseld. Boromir’s hands cup the side of Aragorn’s face, then one slides back into hair. Which is black. Like his own. But a different sort of black. A nighttime black, not the black of loamy soil. 

He also isn’t sure how to do this, but in a different direction than Aragorn. 

They part, for a moment, noses brushing and gods Aragorn is very close to him, and very warm, and he’s fairly certain their rooms are across the hall from each other because the gods hate him and have a perverse sense of humour. 

‘We should probably go back,’ Aragorn whispers. 

‘Probably,’ Boromir agrees. 

A wind kicks up, makes their hair blousy. 

‘We’re probably missed by the others,’ Aragorn continues. 

‘Probably,’ Boromir agrees again. Then, leans in again and presses their mouths together. In the distance, he thinks he hears a bird call. The first one he’s heard in days. 

Aragorn stops them for a moment, hand pressed flat on Boromir’s chest, eyes darting over Boromir’s shoulder but there is nothing. Boromir breaths slow, thinks there are a thousand things he wants to do at this exact moment but there is no time. Or discrete enough a place. 

‘We really ought to—’ Aragorn murmurs. 

‘Yes,’ Boromir steps back, the absence of Aragorn against him is noted. He tugs at Aragorn’s arm, steals a last (if perhaps cheeky) kiss. Then about faces and strides back towards Meduseld’s portico leaving Aragorn to follow after a due amount of time. 

Inside, Théoden has pushed two tables together in the main hall and gathered his council. Boromir joins the re-assembled group, sitting by Gimli who smokes pensively. The remains of breakfast-early dinner are spread out so Boromir, who ducked out during a pause in council deliberations, drags bread and a board of cheese and cured meats towards himself. There are also pickled beets and beans and carrots to add to his repast, the evident remains of a winter cellar. He contemplates the onions but decides in favour of beans. 

Around him, the men murmur to themselves about the state of the country. He hears whispers of concerns for the harvest, how this is time for ploughing and sowing — to take their men away from the fields would mean it is a desperate business. 

And it is a desperate business. Look at the sky, see how dark it is, how the sun burns red and no longer does its golden face shine down on them. Harvests are as important as well-defended borders, often more important. But with how Sauron works, there might not be any mouths left to feed with said harvest. 

‘Erkenbrand still holds the Ford?’ Théoden asks Éomer as everyone settles down to resume council. 

‘Last we heard. He will be in desperate need of reinforcements.’ 

Théoden rubs hand over his mouth, sits back in his chair to mull. 

Boromir eats his bread and contemplates what sort of pitched battle they might find themselves in. Rohan’s army is nothing like Gondor’s, relying more on select and general levies than an installment of professional soldiers. Save for the king’s guard. But, he has been given to understand that most men in the country are trained to handle spear and bow on horseback from a young age for just such an occasion. Your farmers are your army. 

Best not be an unpopular king, Boromir muses, wryly. He slices himself some cheese as the doors open and Aragorn slides back into the hall.

‘We should send reinforcements to the Ford,’ Mithrandir says, sitting to Théoden’s left. Éomer is across from him, occupying the place his cousin once sat. Down the table, towards the entrance to Meduseld is a young woman. Boromir lifts an eyebrow, wonders who she is before remembering: right, Éomer has a sister. It must be her. The woman sits with back perfectly straight, hawkish features bearing an aloof expression. She is Caradhras compared to her brother who is of warmer colouring. Blonde hair but light, a white gold, and eyes pale blue as a winter stream. 

‘How many can be spared from Edoras?’ Mithrandir asks. 

‘We have a thousand riders who could leave on the ‘morrow,’ Théoden answers with a discreet glance towards Éomer. The younger man’s head tilts in an affirmative. ‘We will send out men to call a levy but I’m not sure they’d arrive in time.’ 

‘Riders will,’ Éomer says, sliding a pitcher of ale towards himself. ‘The infantry won’t. And do we want to spare them from the fields? We’re already in March, this isn’t the time to be pulling men away from the plough. Last summer was wet towards the end so we lost half of the second harvest. I know everyone is antsy to make up for it this year.’ 

Théoden taps the table in thought. ‘How big is Saruman’ army?’ 

General murmuring of uncertainty. There were several hundred, perhaps one thousand or more, at the Ford. But they’ve dispersed. There were the thousand slaughtered by Fangorn. But the entirety of the army? No one knows. 

Well, Gríma would presumably know, Boromir thinks glumly. And not only the size of the forces but also their resources, their tactics, training, the class of officer in charge, what Saruman’s intentions are, his overall strategy. 

‘How long does it take to grow an army?’ Gimli asks, blowing out smoke. ‘He started in October, it’s March now. So, five to six months would let him have what? Five thousand? Ten? Fifteen?’ 

Mithrandir shakes his head, ‘I don’t know. And Saruman wasn’t breeding normal orcs so we can’t necessarily apply those standards.’

Boromir once again wonders why they didn’t lock Gríma in a linen closet until this was all over. Does Meduseld have cells? Éomer was locked in his rooms, but he’s royalty so it wouldn’t be right to put him in a cell. Regardless, Gríma should not have been allowed to run. 

‘Well let’s pick a number and work with that as an assumption,’ Gimli says. ‘I say seven thousand, since he’s lost a few thousand in the last two weeks.’ 

‘I’m going to take some of my men and gather the remainder of my riders from the Eastfold,’ Éomer says. ‘We’ll leave tonight. That will bring us up to two thousand on horseback which can more than deal with five or seven thousand infantry.’ 

‘And our positioning at the Ford is to our advantage,’ Éowyn chimes from down the table. ‘But don’t forget the wildmen who make up some of Saruman’s ranks.’ 

Éomer shrugs, ‘They’re a few hundred. And all on foot.’ 

‘Are we certain?’ Éowyn asks. 

‘No, but they traditionally fight on foot so I fail to see why that would be different.’ 

‘It’s something Wyrmtunga - Wormtongue - let slip once. It was implied some were forming a sort of eored of their own to counter our riders.’ 

‘Lady Éowyn makes a good point,’ Gimli says. ‘Men in general fight differently than uruks and orcs. So, five to seven thousand orcs, let’s say five hundred wild men, all at the Ford. Could they take it?’ 

‘Theoretically, yes,’ Théoden sighs. ‘But if we arrive in time to bolster Erkenbrand we should be able to hold it. But I need Saruman dealt with swiftly, there’s war coming on our southern borders and I don’t want my army split any more than it has to be.’ 

The council hums in agreement. A quiet moment of musing. Théoden motions to Boromir, ‘Thoughts, son of Gondor?’ 

Many, Boromir thinks. Most are ill advised to say aloud. ‘I think your initial plan to be the most sensible. Take your riders to the River Isen, leave enough men in Edoras to defend the city in case of attack, and reinforce the Ford. With Éomer’s forces included, that should be more than enough to deal with Saruman’ army who is, I will point out, poorly trained. Which is to our advantage. Leave enough men to securely hold the Ford and circle your forces back south. Meanwhile, have your men from the levy marshal at the southern border so they’re ready when you arrive.’ He pauses, shrugs. ‘That’s at least what I would do.’ 

Théoden nods, leans forward, ‘And you, Lord Aragorn?’ 

Aragorn pauses, mid-drink, puts his ale down. ‘I would leave more men here for defence of the city, but otherwise I agree.’ 

‘Edoras is situated enough in the interior that it should be insulated from attack until the Ford is dealt with,’ Boromir replies, leaning around Gundahar. ‘For Saruman to take Rohan he will need to capture both Helm’s Deep and Edoras. But first, he needs the Ford. I can’t see him managing that, let alone taking both Helm’s Deep and the capital with the forces he has.’ 

‘Which we have only speculated on,’ Aragorn says. ‘We don’t actually know their size.’ 

Boromir shrugs, sits back a fraction, says the matter of the defence of Edoras is in Théoden’s purvey. He knows his city and what she can withstand. 

‘Well,’ Mithrandir says when the table is silent. ‘It seems we’re all in agreement on the broad strokes of the plan. Shall we take a break?’ 

Boromir again decants outside with the pause in the council meeting. He brings a cup of ale and settles on the edge of the portico, feet hanging off, and looks out to eastern sky. 

‘A grim sight,’ Éomer says, joining Boromir on the ground. They clink their cups together and take a sip. ‘I’m leaving this evening for Aldburg and the southern parts of the Eastfold. We should be back with the main forces in a few days. Will you be riding with us or going on to Gondor?’ 

Boromir frowns, had thought the answer to that obvious. He supposes he could go on to Gondor, indeed he means to eventually return. Especially now that war is so fast upon them with an intensity not felt in years. But to leave his allies when they need all the men they can muster? That would be an indefensible act of abandonment. More so, when one considers the aid Rohan has rendered to Gondor over the years. ‘Oh don’t worry, I’m staying. We’re all staying. I’m not sure if the five of us will make a difference, but we’ll be there.’ 

‘All swords are welcome.’ 

‘There you are,’ a voice from behind. Then the Lady Éowyn is suddenly in view, having come down the steps and circled around to stand in front of them. She holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. ‘Our uncle is looking for you.’ 

Éomer tips back the cup of ale. ‘I’ll be with him directly.’ 

‘It’s about who is to be in charge of Edoras while the king is way.’ 

Éomer’s face grows uneasy. Boromir senses this to be a testy subject so begins to rise, saying he’ll be going inside, but Éomer waves him back down. 

‘My cousin or I would stay,’ Éomer explains. ‘When he was alive.’ 

‘Theodred seemed a capable leader,’ Boromir says for something of an answer. He watches Éomer’s shoulders shift, how his weight is held awkwardly. There will be greater weight yet, he thinks, when one day the crown is assumed. 

‘He was. Only one and forty when he died.’ Éomer stops. Fidgets with his cup. ‘I’d best see to our uncle.’ Standing, he brushes himself off then bows and bids them a good day. 

Éowyn, once her brother is gone, turns attention to Boromir. Her gaze is one of assessment. Detached and disinterested. 

‘You are most welcome, my lord,’ she says. ‘I know my brother is happy that you are here to lend aid.’ 

‘It’s a pleasure and an honour.’ 

A withering smile. ‘Men from Gondor, always saying one thing and meaning another. Don’t take offence, my lord, for I mean none. It’s only, we are more forthright here.’ 

‘Then I will say it’s an honour.’ 

She nods. Says that she deems that an acceptable answer. ‘An honour for men, yes.’ She curtsies in the Gondor fashion, if a bit stiffly, and bids good-day. A few steps, then she stops. Turns fast so her skirts rustle the grass. She remains gripping the front of them, having lifted them to walk. ‘Do women fight in Gondor?’ 

‘I beg pardon?’

‘Do women fight? Are they soldiers?’ 

A wry smile, ‘I’m sure some would make fiercer warriors than the best of my men. But no, they don’t. Why?’ 

‘I was curious, that is all.’ She tilts her head to the side, chews on the inside of her cheek. ‘What you did today. The offer you made.’ 

Boromir feels a flash of heat. ‘I hope you do not think I spoke out of turn.’ 

‘We each are allowed our views,’ Éowyn replies, shrugging. ‘It was a noble sentiment.’ 

‘I believe you may have differing views on the matter. And rightfully so.’ 

‘I do.’ She tilts her head to the side, frowns over something. ‘But there are times when I think I’m not necessarily a terribly good person. Not the way you are, not the way my brother is. And I am angry at him, Gríma, for what he did to my uncle. For what he did to our people. Or, was willing to let happen.’ 

‘Do you know why he would do such a thing?’ Because, Boromir thinks, he can’t for the life of himself fathom the motive. The man had position, rank, a place in the king’s household - men would sully their names and their honour for less. 

Éowyn’s expression becomes private, if a bit knowing. ‘Oh, I think I have a fairly good idea of what caused it all to happen. The underlying problem, so to speak.’ 

Boromir waits for elaboration. He finds her glacial coolness disconcerting. It reminds him not a little of the disgraced advisor, a comparison he is certain she would loath. 

She smiles a secret smile, cold as a knife. ‘ _A hutch to trammel some wild thing in._ Well, I warrant being in Saruman’s keep will be worse than that.’ Her face softens into a genuine warmth. The sudden thaw is radiant. ‘Truly, my lord, what you did was good. My ability for compassion is — well, I reserve it. But there’s a part of me that wishes to be a better person than who I am and that part is at least a little glad you made an offer. _Someone_ had to, who was genuine about it.’ 

‘Your uncle was not?’ 

‘I can’t say. He’s been away for so long. Gandalf wasn’t.’ She shrugs. ‘But you seemed to be in earnest. And Háma, I think. So that’s nice. Not all of us pretend our goodness and nobility, some actually live it. I like to believe that of most people. Anyway, I’ve kept you too long, my lord. Good day.’ She quickly gives another curtsy, this one a fluid Rohirric, and departs back into the mead hall. 

Boromir blinks up to the sky. The clouds muddling past, their soft white and grey bodies glossy and sleek. As if a painter took their brush and swiped it along the heavens. What, he thinks with some exhaustion, the everlasting _fuck_ was that conversation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, the upcoming Grima chapters are rough so I decided I needed to write happier things first. So you get this.


	12. Isengard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Saruman being nasty; implied animal death

Brynja once said that the fundamental tragedy of her brother is that Gríma knows he could live a better life than he does. He has capabilities for softness, kindness, curiosity, love but he’s left them unattended for so long he’s forgotten where he’s put them. 

She had been speaking to her husband, Hereward. Gríma overheard by chance and thought it all a bit much. If he was being dramatic, he would say the tragedy of his life is that he was born. If he was being sensible, he would say he’s never had a kind or good bone in his body. Then he would say, _Brynja we’ve known each other since birth, before birth theoretically, you of all people should know this._ But Brynja likes to see goodness where there is no goodness to see. 

Gríma made the journey from Edoras to Isengard in record time — a day and a half, instead of the usual two-and-a-bit. (And, through the entire journey, he promised Sæwine he would be treated like gold hereafter. To which Sæwine seemed skeptical. Reasonable, all things considered.)

Now, he stands before Saruman breathing the slow, even breaths of a hunted animal hiding beneath brush. His heart in his throat, his mind ten feet above him, but gods his breath is glacial in its calmness. 

Saruman has his back to Gríma. Has only looked at Gríma once, as he explained what happened, and that glance had been in profile. A flash of fire in coal-black eyes. 

They are in Saruman’s office which is obsidian, like all of Orthanc. Obsidian and unmoving. Like death. There are spaces filled with ghosts of violent events, Orthanc is one of them. If the walls are haunted, they are haunted by memories that are being forgotten and so scream out all the louder to make their mark known. 

Gríma wishes not to breathe. Taking in air is a disturbance of the environment. He is making a nuisance of himself. His presence alone is a rift, he believes he is doing something wrong despite standing perfectly still. Silent, but he is convinced he is making a commotion. 

This is the issue with being alive in a place that was never meant to house the living. Gríma thinks that sure, Orthanc was built by men. Sure, it was used by men, once upon a time, to study stars. But sometimes men make houses and homes that aren’t meant to hold them. 

The times Gríma has been forced to stay the night in the cold tower, he would take himself up to the very top of the pinnacle and lie in the centre to stare up to the heavens. He knows the stories for all the constellations. Both those from Éothéod and those from Skoltse. His mother said someone should remember her people’s ones as well. 

Saruman is too much hard rock, frozen river water, to be considered alive. Théoden once said, _If you want to know a man. Find out what he wears beneath his clothes._ Gríma assumes Saruman is nothing but ghastly bones, shriveled skin. There is a meanness to him that bites through the rich fabrics of glacial white. 

Saruman’s presence is its own country. An absent, empty one in which there is no exit and it is easy to lose oneself. 

How unlike Edoras. Meduseld, in its quietest, is still full of life. Servants, men and women of the king’s household, dogs, cats all living atop each other. Even with Saruman’s magic descending over them, making it so the wind blows without voice, the birds do not sing, the land holds its breath. Even then, the silence was never truly silent, just a temporary muted form of living.

Saruman does not reply as Gríma slowly peters off his recounting of recent events. It seems, from Gríma’s vantage, that the wizard is taking note from a book open on the reader. A silver knife is propped against a page to keep it open. Written across soft vellum are formulas, sigils, signs. A complex form of magic Gríma’s never quite understood. The little he knows is relatively simple in how it’s performed. Comparatively, at least. For a given value of “simple.” _Hedge-magic,_ Saruman called it once. Suitable for the sort who let their children roll about in the dirt with dogs. 

[ _Inherited?_ Saruman had asked, when Gríma first slunk into his employ. _Sure,_ Gríma lied. _Something like that._ Saruman said he didn’t know humans could wield magic. He had thought that beyond their ken. Gríma shrugged, he wouldn’t know, would he? He can do little things. Wrap metaphorical fingers around bodies to keep them in stasis. Also, light fires. Make cabbages grow faster. Probably other plants, too. He’s never tried. Though they taste a bit off, if you eat them. Words, though, that was always where his magic lay. The power of language, all the illicit things that mouths speak out. The creation that comes from speech. 

_Can you bind a man and make of him a frail thing?_

_Probably._

_Find out._

And he did.] 

Orthanc’s stone bites into Gríma’s back. The hard edge of the wall between shoulders is a blunt and inescapable presence. He presses himself into it further. Thinks his back will bear the impression of every wall he’s ever shrunk against, of which there are a great many. 

‘My lord?’ he tries. ‘Is there something you would have me do?’ 

Saruman remains unresponsive. The only sound that of quill scratching. Gríma daren’t move. He presses his left thumbnail into the opposite palm. Idly wonders if all is in place with the army. Now that Théoden is returned to himself, Éothéod will strike fast. A plunge of lightning into lonesome tree on a hill. 

‘With Théoden back,’ he begins, tentatively. Seeing no response he continues, ‘I expect Éothéod will marshal quickly. He’ll probably send reinforcements to Erkenbrand at the Ford. At the very least, that is what Éomer will recommend be done and I see no reason why Théoden wouldn’t heed his advice. Once the Ford is reinforced, he will either take to Helm’s Deep or Edoras. Both are formidable in terms of siege. No one has taken Helm’s Deep in all of Éomarc’s history. And Edoras has only been taken when someone on the inside was kind enough to open the back door, so to speak.’ He licks lips. Still, no response. Finding the talk on operations and tactics gives him something solid to cleave to, he decides to continue down the vein. 

‘I suspect, given the short notice, there’ll be around five thousand cavalry at most. Probably closer to two or three, plus maybe a thousand on foot. That would be my estimate.’ 

‘Would it indeed?’ Saruman asks, still bent over his books. Gríma snaps his mouth shut. Continues working thumb into palm. ‘I think I can handle a few horse-lords and their meager attempts at kingship.’ 

‘I do not doubt that, my lord. But at the same time, I wouldn’t underestimate Théoden. He is a reliable and effective general. As are his nephew and Erkenbrand. I’ve organized many a campaign for him, I know how he thinks.’ 

Saruman slowly turns to face Gríma. An expressionless face with black eyes taking him in, a fearsome look in all of its absence of emotion. Gríma swallows. He’s sweating despite the cold. His heart is running a race. 

‘Did you ever ride with him?’ Saruman asks. 

‘No.’ 

‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You are a coward.’ 

Saruman was inside Théoden, Gríma thinks with abstraction. What must it be like to have someone possessing you? Are you aware of what they do? Do you watch from a locked room inside your head as they commit acts and speak words in your name? It brings about the same horror in Gríma as the thought of being buried alive. Of being laid out, unable to move, to speak, to say: _Stop, no, let me up I am alive. I am one of you. I am not yet of the dead._

Gods. He never meant for Théoden to be used in such a way. Only for him to be contained, controlled not, well, invaded. Taken over from inside your own body. The mind usurped. Your will and ability stripped away by an external force that now pretends to be you. An invader who knows your thoughts, your fears, your desires, weaknesses, strengths. The things you took pride in, the things you felt shame over, private memories, secret thoughts. 

The longer Gríma thinks about it, his mind spiralling downward on that single point: _possession,_ the more disgusted he becomes. 

And that he enabled it. His stomach twists, tightens, becomes a small knot of string that cannot be unpicked. 

‘I think I can safely assure you that I _know_ Théoden,’ Saruman continues with a sharp smile. ‘He is of no concern.’ 

‘You said I was to manage Théoden-kunning. You said nothing about _possessing_ him—’ 

‘How could someone like you understand? Your view of the world is narrow, the scope of your understanding pitiable. And I couldn’t afford your strangely lingering fondness for Théoden to interrupt my work. But it was all for naught. Your spells weren’t good enough.’ 

Gríma thinks that he hadn’t expected to contend against Gandalf. He said he could remove Théoden as an obstacle and undermine the marshalate. Which he did. With limited resources and an unclear timeline. He was not told his work would have to withstand the power of a wizard. 

But, he supposes, that is his fault for not considering all possibilities. There should always be a contingency plan. He didn’t have one. Ducking his head, Gríma apologies. Says that Saruman is absolutely right. He is sorry. Then, again the tentative ask: ‘Is there anything you wish me to do?’ 

Saruman tilts his head, stares through Gríma and Gríma wants to empty his mind because he knows what is about to happen but he is exhausted and wants to sleep and never wake so when Saruman comes in it is like a flood of water disintegrating a break-wall. 

Gríma closes eyes, breaths out, knows whatever punishment is inevitably in store for him to be well deserved. 

Cunning, keen attention to detail, clever and efficient, thorough — everyone may have thought him a snake, but he always thought: _At least I’m an intelligent one and they can see that. At least I’m hardworking and good at what I do._ But clearly he has been deceiving himself and others. 

Later, and Gríma manages to find a room to hide himself away in. He slides down the wall so to sit on the floor, knees up, surcoat wrapped about him. An idle thought: _Oh, I’m hungry._ Another idle thought: _I don’t think I could eat again._

His stomach remains a small, threaded knot. It would take a needle and great care to unpick such a thing. Best cut it out and start afresh. 

The room is close with a tall, narrow window letting in some light. Sparse furniture, so a chair, a bed, a trunk. He doesn’t feel he can afford to sit on anything of note so keeps to the floor. 

Gods, if only Gandalf had never come. He pursues his fury at the wizard for many minutes. It’s all that damnable man’s fault. That, and Gríma’s own inabilities. But his personal failings, while many, wouldn’t have mattered had Gandalf not shown up. 

He buries his head against his arms that rest on his knees. Can it be any colder? Yes, he supposes, it can. It’s not winter. Wait for a December month. 

He cannot fathom spending so long in this place. He wouldn’t make it to December. He _won’t_ make it to December. He thinks he’ll either self-murder or Saruman will do it for him. Not with his own hand, but in drips and drabs. 

There is nowhere else to go. He is trapped. Thinks that there’s a part of him that has always been stuck. Stuck somewhere and unable to move; unable to go wherever it is he wants to go. Others are free to live their lives with some contentment and joy and find pleasure in what they do, companionship in those around. Then there’s him. Stuck in a room and unable to leave because he doesn’t know how the door works.

A hutch to trammel some wild thing in. 

Éowyn was not wrong when she said, _You speak for yourself, I am sure._

Éomer was not wrong all those times he looked at Gríma when saying, _Beware dragons and their voices._ That unreadable look which held much meaning. 

Maybe he’ll be like those dead loons on the unnamed dock in that unnamed village and he will die and someone will cut him open out of curiosity and be able to point to something inside of him and say, _That’s the cause of all of this trouble._

When he first arrived in Edoras he was three-and-twenty and newly returned from Gondor where he had spent time doing this-and-that for no one in particular. Brynja had married and gone off with soft-spoken Hereward who was kind, big, red-haired, and could span a full country with his hands. Gríma had then disappeared into that large, overwhelming country to the south. 

Which everyone in Éothéod generally just calls the Southern Country. As if taking away Gondor’s name will somehow make Gondor less grand. 

Names are important, Gríma reasons, so it’s not necessarily a bad approach. 

Théoden’s senechal at the time, a man with hoary-beard and mischievous eyes, Yrmenlaf, had said: _Théoden has always tried to be a forward thinking king. His father intended to model our legal system on that of the southern country. Where you’ve spent time._

_A little._

_So you are familiar with it?_

Gríma had balked. Why would he be familiar with their legal system? He had no cause to be acquainted with it. Which Yrmenlaf walked back, _I phrased that poorly. Only, you’re educated and have been there. That makes you uniquely placed._

And Gríma believed this the first and last time someone thought him uniquely placed for anything which meant, in his rather more erstwhile temperament as a younger man, he decided he would die for Yrmenlaf. 

A dedication that proved unnecessary, but that is neither here nor there. 

Four years ago, Gríma was sent to convey a message to Saruman. Théoden could see that white clad arm reaching out from Isengard and knew what it portended. He said, _See if there are terms we can come to. I can’t fight a war on all borders. But be quick about it, because I need you back here for when envoys from Gondor arrive._

And Gríma had gone and Saruman had said, _You’re rather clever. I’m sure Théoden fully appreciates all you do for him. It must be satisfying, at the end of the day, to have your service to your people recognized._

His mother once said that her memory was like a starving hound. _If you feed it, it will never leave. If you don’t feed it, it will tear you apart looking for something to eat._

_See,_ Ceridwen explained, _there are ghosts in the walls and we’re supposed to learn from them. They are the architecture of the family home._

And memories — he has few of anyone who has seen him and thought him good. He lingers on this. His father always said he was cold as ice, mean as a snake, and twice as hungry. Which he always assumed to be true. Why else would Gálmód say it? Éothéod are forthright people, they do not prevaricate and hide their views. When he told Brynja she just said, _Father isn’t good at fathering. And you’re not any of that._ But Brynja is his twin so of course she must say that. For, if he is cold as ice, mean as a snake, and twice as hungry, what does that make her? 

Yet, within these tangled thoughts, there is a small, quiet part of him that says: no, there are those who know what good you have done. It might be small, it might be an inconsequential thing, but they have seen it and known it and called it worthy.

Éomer once said that it was a pity, nay a shame, that he worked for the enemy. But Éomer was surely just riling him up. How they both get at each other, dig under skin and needle one another. It’s a compulsion, almost. They’ve always been an arguing sort. 

Lord Boromir, though. He said that Gríma held value. Gríma doesn’t remember anyone considering him of value, before. Of use, yes. But not of value. Perhaps they have, but if so, he has no memory of it. He never thought someone like Boromir would hold out his hand for a man like him.

A knock at the door and Gríma starts. In seconds he up, across the room, and opening the door to see Saruman standing with staff in hand and a particular look in his eye that is of a cat who has cornered a mouse. He says, ‘Come, I have decided how you are to pay for your failures. Which are many. Your people call you Wormtongue -’ 

‘Wyrm, there’s a difference.’ 

Saruman smiles a brittle smile. ‘Worm is more apt, don’t you think? Something that crawls on its belly through dirt and is of no consequence.’ 

Gríma does not disagree. 

The wizard descends down stairs and Gríma follows. Half of him wonders if there’s a way out, because he dislikes pain and does not think he can handle much. The other half says he’s deserving of it so best put his head down and take it. This is his weregild, so to speak, for failing in his duties. 

Not that he’s oathbound to Saruman. Because Saruman doesn’t believe in the importance of oaths. But it’s the only way Gríma can think of it. 

They cross through several rooms then down another flight before coming to the ground floor of Orthanc. Saruman flicks his wrist and the front doors open to the murky sky, the fiery pits of what once was green land. The greenest grasses Gríma had ever seen. Rich and deep as an emerald. A contrast to the flowing silver of Éothéod. 

Which he likes to think about instead of what is in front of him. The different grasses, their smells, the endless waves —

Saruman gestures for him to walk out so he does. Standing at the top of the steps he looks down to see Sæwine being held by several orcs. He tries to rear up but is pulled back down. Hard. Too hard. They’re going to hurt his mouth. 

Gríma thinks the world is dropping out from beneath his feet. Everything is loud. Everything is present. Everything is far away. He cannot see what is in front of him. He can only see what is in front of him. He thinks without thinking. His mind is a thousand leagues a minute full of: _nonononono—_ His mouth is cotton. His jaw cannot work. 

Turning to Saruman, Gríma whispers: ‘What are they doing with Sæwine?’


	13. The Leaving of Edoras

A brief moment between councils, messengers leaving to alert lords to the pending levy, messengers arriving with news from disparate parts of Rohan telling tales of orcs and wild men and strange beasts haunting after desperate people. Boromir, familiarizing himself with Meduseld, stumbles across Éomer in the midst of a neat and orderly room. Before him, an open trunk. Bare walls, the few objects on the sideboard are well kept and placed in a clearly precise manner. Éomer is dressed to ride and explains that he’s waiting for the rest of his men to be ready. ‘We’ll make it to Aldburg tonight. The road is well travelled and the moon bright enough.You’ll be leaving for the Ford soon, I understand.’ 

‘Yes, that’s your uncle’s plan. Once it’s reinforced, I’m not sure.’ 

‘He’ll want to see the lay of the land. Have you ridden with him before?’ 

Boromir shakes his head. No, no, he hasn’t. Aragorn has, he says that Aragorn seems to have ridden with everyone and their grandfather at this point. To which Éomer grins. ‘All that Numenor blood,’ he taps a slender, wooden box in hand. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I lived as long as they.’ 

‘Gods know. Take up a few hobbies, I suppose. Introduce the idea of retirement to kingship.’ Boromir glances around the room again. Spies a tidy stack of several books by the bed. A rarity in Rohan. Most are in Westron, though there are two whose script he has never seen before. He suspects he knows whose room they’re standing in and that realization leaves a strange feeling in his stomach. He wants to back out, it is too invasive to be in a man’s room without his permission. Even if he is a traitor. 

Instead, he asks: ‘Has there been a decision on who is to hold Edoras while you and Théoden are away?’ 

Éomer shakes his head. ‘I can think of a few men I’d recommend, but I’ve not been asked and so think it best I keep quiet.’ He goes to continue speaking but thinks better of it. Shakes his head. After a spell of thought he explains that it’s a bit awkward, at the moment. 

‘I’ve not been named my uncle’s heir, yet, but everyone is treating me as such. It feels — I don’t know. Like we’re eager to run roughshod over Théodred’s memory.’ Turning over the box, Éomer traces the designs in a meditative manner — inlays of different woods (oak, ash, cherry), the edging in pearl and silver. It is a terribly pretty thing. Éomer catches Boromir’s eye, shrugs, if a bit embarrassed. ‘Backgammon.’ He shakes the box, muffled rattle of stones and dice. ‘I thought it might go walk-about if I left it here.’ 

‘What? Someone would steal it?’ 

‘Um, no,’ an elongation of the no. ‘Someone might mistake it for something that was stolen, if you understand. They might think it belonged to someone else and, since no one has come forward for it, it’s free to any who want it.’ 

‘Right,’ Boromir gives a tight smile. ‘One of those purposeful misunderstandings.’ 

‘Yes, you understand.’ A low sigh. ‘We used to play it from time to time. Its strange to think that I’ve known him for longer than I’ve not known him. We arrived at Edoras in the same year. My mother had just died, my father was dead for two, three years by then.’ 

Ah, Boromir thinks, another strange conversation about Gríma seems to be in order. Why everyone feels the need to talk to him about it is a mystery. He does not wish to be their secret keeper. He does not wish to know how tangled lives are, how disruptive a leaving can be. Even if everyone knew it was coming. Could see it down the road, approaching. It’s a rupture, the ship will tilt from side to side from the sudden displacement. 

And halls like Meduseld collect memories. Keep them tight then spring them on a person when they least expect it. Oh, this is where that conversation happened. Oh, that is where this one event happened. Remember that time… Remember when we used to… Remember how it was… _Remember, remember, remember._

Earlier, Háma pulled him aside and said, _I remember when things were better. Not sure what made it all so muddy_. And Boromir replied, _Lady Éowyn thinks she knows._ And Háma raised his eyebrows in surprise but didn’t reply.

Later, Boromir said to Aragorn, _I’m never offering peace or a hand to anyone again. It means I’m suddenly the person everyone is telling these awkward secrets to._

Aragorn just grinned and was far too amused for Boromir’s taste. Gimli tapped Boromir’s arm with his pipe, _If you get anything good, tell me. Legolas and I have a few running bets on things here._

Boromir: _I don’t want to know._

Gimli laughed: _Probably not._

Éomer opens the slim box to show Boromir the inside. The white slots are pearl, the black are dark oak. The edges are lined with a soft green and gold stonework. The counters are thin stones, polished and soft. 

‘It was his mother’s,’ Éomer says. ‘If I remember rightly.’ 

‘Did you like him?’ 

Éomer shrugs. ‘What was to like or not like? He was my uncle’s adviser. He was always around, making things happen, making sure everything got done that needed to get done. A constant. Like a wall fixture.’ 

Boromir knows the feeling. There are men in his father’s employ who have been there since he was a boy and it would be jarring to one day find them absent. Even if they meant nothing to him personally, it would be destabilizing. Especially with the world as it is now. It’s only natural to hold fast to what is stable and calm. 

Picking up a white stone, Éomer turns it about in his hand. Rubs his thumb over the flat of the counter. ‘I suppose you don’t play backgammon with someone you hate.’ 

‘Generally not, in my experience. _Did_ you hate him?’ 

‘I grew to. I knew for certain he was working for Saruman for the last year and a half. But I had suspicions for a year or so before then. But it didn’t seem real. I don’t know why. I knew, I saw some,’ he wiggle his fingers. The universal sign for magic. ‘ _Witchcraft_ — right, that’s the word. Regular visits to Isengard, though gods above he was discrete and shockingly fast. But — I don’t know. I should feel something right? I did yesterday, when we quarrelled. Gods I hated him. And still do. _That’s_ not liable to change anytime soon. But there’s something — I think what I’m trying to say is that I should have prevented all of this from happening.’ 

Boromir smiles wryly then adjusts his face to somber understanding. ‘There’s no way you could have done that. You bear no blame for his decisions.’

‘But if I had seen it coming, somehow. Known what was going on, and prevented it, then we wouldn’t be here. Everything would be as it was.’ The board is snapped shut and tucked under Éomer’s arm. ‘As it should have been.’ 

‘I know the feeling. And I know the temptation to beat yourself up about it, but really. There’s nothing you could have done. People make their own bed to lie in. You can offer them a new way, but it’s still their decision.’ Then, eyeing the board, Boromir asks with a bit of slyness, ‘I take it you’re misunderstanding ownership?’ 

‘No.’ Éomer waits a beat. Seems to expect a reply but Boromir looks at him mildly. ‘I would say I’m keeping it safe from those who might not appreciate it. He won’t be back, but —’ Éomer pauses, fumbles for words. 

‘You used to play backgammon.’ 

A deeply relieved sigh. That’s it. That’s exactly it. Whatever words there are for that reason, _we used to play backgammon,_ that is it. Then, Éomer’s face brightens, ‘Here’s something interesting.’ Reaching into a deep purse that hangs from his belt he carefully withdraws a brass instrument and hands it over. 

Boromir opens it up, smiles. ‘A portable sundial.’ 

‘You know of it?’ 

‘Of course, I had one with me but lost it at Greyflood.’ 

Éomer makes a face, ‘Along with Frealaf?’ 

A roll of eyes. Yes, yes along with the horse. Nodding to the open trunk Boromir asks what else is to be found. Secrets to spellcraft? Witches keep books on that sort of thing, he’s heard. Ingredients for secret potions? 

‘No, though I wouldn’t have been surprised. There are just bits and pieces that have gone missing over the last year. Light fingers. He was always a bit like that, though.’ A flashed smile. ‘I asked him about it once.’ 

‘How did that go? He never struck me as a man who does direct questions.’

Éomer lets out a sharp laugh. ‘Gods no. Oh no. You have to circle around the point for ten minutes. What I got, in the end, was something about him liking objects because they won’t leave you.’ 

Boromir says an: ‘I see,’ then no more for there isn’t much else to add. 

‘He never sold anything,’ Éomer muses, more to himself than Boromir. ‘He just kept it and organized it. According to value, I see. But still, he just kept them. My uncle’s sword was found in here, wrapped in a brocade cloak. What would you call that? A reverent theft?’ 

Sensing Éomer wishes to be alone, Boromir gives half a bow saying they should sit down and catch up later. When things are a little brighter. And the world a little calmer. After all, he owes Éomer information about the elves. 

Before he can leave Éomer asks: ‘Why?’ 

‘I beg pardon?’

‘You said we should offer him a hand. I thought you would be the first to say we should have done with him.’

Boromir pauses. Stands in profile to Éomer. He rests a hand on the door jam and looks at his fingers which are pressed against well hewn wood. Soft with age, how long has Meduseld stood upon this green land? Hundreds of years. When you breathe in you can feel the age for the hall is alive with its history in a way Minas Tirith is not. 

It’s the marble and granite, he thinks. When you build from wood you know the building will speak a different language than that of rock. 

Éomer watches him with an open and curious expression. 

‘I think,’ Boromir starts. ‘I think, had you put this to me last year, I would have said exactly that. I would have said: throw him to the hounds. Be done with traitors and turncoats. We’ve no time or space for them.’ He stops. Blinks furiously. Rubs a hand over his eyes. ‘Now, though, I’m not nearly so certain as I once was. It’s all a bit terrifying, if I’m honest.’ 

‘Why? What happened?’ 

Boromir smiles, taps the door jam, says he’ll tell Éomer one day, but not today. There’s too much happening and this is a conversation he isn’t ready to have with people who were not there. Then, with a bow of his head, he bids good evening and good luck. 

It is with the dividing of the marshalled forces that the question is formally raised: If Théoden and Éomer mean to go to Erkenbrand’s aid, who will lead Edoras?

Théoden leans against the throne. He appears loath to sit for too long. Whether from pent up energy from two and a half years of forced idleness or so as to appear strong Boromir isn’t sure. What he is sure about is that Théoden doesn’t like people leaning close and whispering. 

And what undercurrent of uneasiness is there! Boromir treads water with great care, aware of the simultaneous official and unofficial status he holds at this moment. The unspoken awareness of Théoden about Aragorn’s identity. The ambiguity of Mithrandir’s role in court politics. He wonders what his father will think when inevitable word comes to him that Boromir is lingering in Rohan when he is needed at home. Worst yet, he is lingering at the behest of Mithrandir and with some unknown entity claiming to be heir to the throne in his company. 

Denethor is a man of multitudinous views. Which is to say, Boromir believes his father will both understand and not understand the decision. He will be angry with Boromir and not angry with Boromir and so will probably take it out on Faramir. 

He pushes that future dilemma away. There is nothing he can do for it at this moment. Gods, he thinks, what will Denethor think of Aragorn? Anyone’s guess. Have they ridden together? Boromir doesn’t know. He hovers over _probably, for Aragorn has apparently ridden with everyone and their grandfather_ and _no, surely I’d have heard by now._

Théoden is speaking when Boromir attends back to the issue to hand. He is saying: ‘Those remaining may choose a leader from amongst themselves. I do not expect war to reach Edoras, but our people will need a leader all the same. Let them choose someone they trust.’ 

‘I think they might prefer if it were someone of your house, or someone by your appointment,’ Gundahar says. He speaks cautiously and flicks eyes around at the carefully neutral faces of the men gathered. The women of the hall linger along the edges, listening to husbands and sons and brothers. Boromir can feel their eyes weighing them, the situation, assessing the likelihood of: _will he return on his shield or with his shield?_

Théoden looks at the young guard for a long, piercing moment. Gundahar drops his gaze. Théoden, ‘It will have to be an appointment, then. There’s no one left of my house.’

Gimli nudges Boromir, whispers, ‘Legolas wants to know about Lady Éowyn.’ 

Boromir murmurs, from the side of his mouth, ‘What does he want to know?’ 

‘She’s of the House of Eorl, yes?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Why not her?’ 

Boromir glances around the room finding Éowyn standing to the side of her uncle. She wears a gown of red with white boarders, a mantel lined with fox and held with a gold broach. Her hair is braided with ribbons and partially covered, as is the usual fashion for women in the southern portion of the land. But her face is etched glass. To the little he has seen, she seems to be strong minded yet open to views that are not her own. And there is steel in her bones. He thinks: _We spoke for maybe ten minutes, but I would bet my sword she would hold the line._ But no one looks at her. Save the door warden, who glances from her to Théoden. 

Boromir whispers to Gimli, ‘You know, I don’t think it’s the done thing here.’ 

‘Daft. I’m telling Legolas they’re daft.’ 

Boromir catches Aragorn’s eye then turns his gaze to the ceiling. Boromir controls his face, which had wanted to smile, then returns attention to the room at large. As he does, Háma clears his throat and steps forward. Théoden motions for him to speak. 

‘My lord king, you know that the people trust in the House of Eorl. Gundahar is right in that they would prefer someone of your family.’ 

‘But Éomer I cannot spare, nor would he stay if I asked.’ 

‘I said not Éomer,’ answers Háma. Boromir thinks: _That’s bold_. But Théoden seems unperturbed by the frankness. ‘Nor is he the last of your house. There is Lady Éowyn, my lord. She is as fearless as any of us, and high-hearted. The people love and respect her.’ 

Eyes turn to Éowyn. Boromir thinks he can see a twitch of a smile about her lips. With grace she steps forward into the circle of counselors who are arranged about the dais. Arranging her skirts she sinks into a deep curtsy. 

With her low voice she says, ‘I will gladly defend Edoras, my lord, if that be your will. Indeed, it would be my honour and pleasure to lead our people.’ 

Éomer opens his mouth but Théoden throws a hard glance his direction and it's quickly closed. An expression of reluctant acceptance, mixed with concern, covers his face. Boromir cannot fathom the apparent worry. Edoras will be safe; he agrees with Théoden that the city will be unlikely to see battle. And even if it did, it is well defended. It would take months before anyone laying siege would make headway. 

Théoden calls for an attendant to bring him his father’s sword. It will be in his own rooms, unless Gríma tucked it away somewhere. The attendant shortly returns with the blade, saying it was above the king’s hearth, where it always has been. Apparently it was of less interest than Théoden’s own sword to the former advisor. 

Taking up the sword, Théoden holds it out, ‘All my knights, all my riders, marshals and thanes take an oath to the king. Will you, sister-daughter?’ 

Éowyn inclines her head, ‘I will, and gladly, too.’ 

‘We do not have time for the full oath ceremony, but I will ask you to take it as if the fullness of the right had been done.’ Théoden then switches to Rohirric and speaks with great solemnity. Éowyn replies with the same measured tone. When she is finished, she leans forward and kisses the sword. Holding out her hands, palms up, she receives the blade. Théoden speaks out to the entire hall as he places the sword in her hands. Then, in Westron, ‘By this action and by these words spoken, all here know that Lady Éowyn, my sister-daughter, and daughter of Eomund, is to lead Edoras until such time as either myself and, or, Lord Éomer return. Should we neither return, she is to be your queen. May Béma and the wights of the land bless you.’ 

Slowly standing, Éowyn holds the sword with reverence. She is at once determined and saddened. She looks at her uncle, her brother, then over to Boromir and Aragorn. Boromir thinks she must be five-and-twenty, or there abouts. There has not been significant conflict in Rohan in her lifetime. Yes, her father was slain fighting orcs, but that was in border country. She has never seen war first hand. It occurs to Boromir that this might be just occurring to her as well. 

She breaths in, steadies herself, clears her face. Then, in a determined voice, as if her will alone can make her words true, she says to her uncle, ‘You will come home. The king will come again. Of this I have no doubt.’ 

Does Théoden remember the last three years? Clearly, there are parts of him that do. For as he said, his memory is: tilt of hand from left to right. 

Which Boromir thinks must be the only way to accurately convey such loss. And memory at the best of times is unreliable. He knows he has memories that happened in childhood but he doesn’t know when. He says: _Oh, this occurred when I was twelve._ And Faramir says, _No, you must have been ten because I was so young at the time._ But to have absence? A blank spot where there ought to be script? 

He has come upon this thought after relaying to Aragorn that strange and fractured conversation with Éomer. About which all Aragorn had to say was: _Well then. That’s a lot to unravel. I wish Éomer the best._ So, Boromir puts Théoden’s memory to the other man as they wait for the king’s household to prepare itself for war. Éomer and his men have departed for Aldburg and Théoden has changed his mind about leaving in the morning, declaring that his éored will ride out as soon as they are mustered.

Already prepared to ride, Aragorn and Boromir loiter, smoking, by the main hearth fire that runs down the centre of the hall. 

‘How much do you think he remembers?’ 

Aragorn heaves a heavy sigh. ‘I don’t know. My understanding is that possession, when active, blots everything out. So when he was Saruman he’ll have no recollection of things said and done. But otherwise, I assume he would be aware of what is around him. But, there was whatever Gríma was up to. So, anyone’s guess.’ A pause to blow out smoke. Then, a musing: ‘I didn’t know humans could do spellcraft.’ 

‘There are those dark sort who work for Sauron. Necromancers and the like.’

‘Sure, but their power comes from him. And it’s very specific. That’s, at least, what Gandalf’s told me. Whereas this here seemed more...organic, I suppose. Of Rohan.’ 

‘A mystery,’ Boromir replies with some little irony. ‘Another riddle to add to our ever expanding collection. It really should have been Faramir who came. He’s better at that sort of thing. Anyway, I’m not sure if it’s a good thing to not remember what happened.’ 

‘I think it is,’ Aragorn declares. ‘At least to my mind.’ A pensive moment of thought before he amends, ‘No, never mind. I’d want to know. I don’t know if it’s something I would want to hear from others.’ 

‘And you’d have to trust that they would tell you everything.’ 

‘That too.’ 

Boromir snags the pipe, complains about Aragorn hogging it. Is informed that as they are now in a proper city, he can avail himself of one that will be all his own. 

‘What? Half the fun is pilfering from you and Gimli.’ 

‘I’ll buy it for you,’ Aragorn says. He is at once earnest, heartfelt and mischievous. ‘I’ll make sure there are turnips carved on it.’ 

Boromir blows smoke in Aragorn’s direction. Aragorn smiles and Boromir cannot tell if the turnip threat was a joke or not. He grouses about future kings already taking liberties with their subjects. He believes he will spend the next few weeks hesitantly waiting for the gift of a turnip pipe. 

Aragorn sits back, resting palms on the edge of the broad benches that flank the hearth. He chews on his lip then says, ‘I saw a possession once.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

‘Out near the sea of Rhûn. Where everyone speaks Skoltse. There was a commune of women who tended to a sacred space outside the city of Dunoul. It was a spring, and was believed that an elemental or local spirit resided there. A landwight as the Rohirric would call them. The women took it upon themselves to take care of the place, provide offerings and the like. The usual things one would expect. Anyway, a number of them found themselves afflicted by some form of spellcraft.’ 

‘Was it like,’ Boromir vaguely motions towards the dais at the end of the main hall where sits the throne. 

‘Not quite. There was one woman, Ethelinda, who spoke languages that were apparently unknown to her. She also prophesied in a voice that was not her own and sort of,’ Aragorn twists his wrist around, ‘contorted herself. At one point she was bent near in half and screamed in a language I didn’t know. As she did this her eyes rolled so far back you could only see the whites.’ He shakes his head, gaze hovering on the fire. 

‘I’ve always thought possession to be a form of theatre,’ Boromir says after a moment. ‘In all the accounts I’ve heard, usually someone wants something and is using it as a means to manipulate the situation.’ 

‘I suppose.’ Aragorn changes his pose, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees. 

‘I mean, it only matters if someone sees it.’ 

‘How do you mean?’ 

‘Saruman didn’t possess Théoden until we were all gathered to witness it. Witchcraft, whatever it was Gríma did, that prefers shadows for its work. You don’t make it a public display. But possession is an act of power and control.’ 

‘And ownership.’ 

Boromir frowns. ‘Yes. And ownership.’ He chews on the pipe, then asks: ‘Do you know what possessed this poor Ethelinda?’ 

‘No, that was never determined. There was a local man who seemed up on his knowledge of such things and suspected it was an old god. But that’s a bit —’ Aragorn hums over his word choice. ‘Well, you know, old gods are a bit mythical.’ 

Boromir grins, hands back the pipe. ‘What is this? Aragorn son of Arathorn declaring something to be mythical. He’s not seen an old god?’ ‘

No,’ Aragorn replies, rolling his eyes. ‘Because no one has. If they ever were real they’ve disappeared. Taken themselves off somewhere else. Anyway, I feel that if she had been possessed by one it would be different than what I saw.’ 

‘What would you expect?’ 

Aragorn taps out the pipe and refills. He tilts his head from side to side then sighs, ‘I don’t know. I just refuse to believe that’s what it was. But what do I know? Maybe they’re still out there waiting quietly for their own time to come again.’


	14. Gifts of Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: more violence to animals; Saruman's overall abusive nature

There is a path in a forest made of turtles’ shells and beetle’s wings. When you take up a turtle, eat its soft innards, then peel the top of the shell off to make jewels and beads and necklaces and decorative lining of chess boards and sacred boxes filled with secret things like bones of the dead and ashes and rocks with holes in them and yew branches collected on the eve of midsummer jehlą, or jól as they call it in Edoras. The path dissipates into fog the fog becomes boulders lichen covered grey as the eyes of a mother and father and siblings which are different from the eyes in your own head. There is a man wearing the pelt of prey-animals with a crown of leaves and horns he turns to you he has no face but he speaks a muffled prayer asking _what is it you want_ he turns you into a chess piece and a bird and a snake and a small mouse, hunts you with his eyeless face his mouthless face toothless mouth he will eat you up and spit out the bones into a box snakes regurgitate what they cannot digest as do cats other predators the man presses finger to forehead and says _you have it, do what you will with it._

Gríma wakes, lying on the floor of the room called his in Orthanc. It is night, from what he can see out the window. Tall and thin, it reminds him of a grotto in the outskirts of Fangorn. The space where the forest is not yet a forest but it isn’t the plains. His father said it was where Béma would hunt and showed him the carved rock which pillared up like the window, to a natural peaked arch. In the centre lay a flat rock used for sacrifices. Behind it grew a thin ash with many branches. _This place is called sacred,_ Gálmód explained. _When you’re older we will blood you in and your first kill will be left here for the god of the hunt._

_What does Béma look like?_ He had wanted to know. He stood with a bow slung across his back. Small for a nine year old he has hunted hares and partridge and ground squirrels. At fifteen he will be taken out by Gálmód and a few uncles and his older brothers and left in some desolate spot to track and kill a stag. Ideally. A doe, if there’s no other choice. 

_He rides the wildest of horses, one who cannot be tamed by mortal men. And he has flowing hair, golden as the sun. Eyes stern and grave. He avoids the other gods and keeps to his shadowed forests where he hunts and ensures harvests. When he comes out to the plains it is for the chase. The wild hunt of late autumn and mid-winter._

Gríma squinted at his father and tried to imagine what Béma would look like. Gálmód, being very much a man of Éomarc, had all those features embodied in the Wold’s favoured god. Gálmód eyed his son for a minute then motioned to the grotto. Gríma awkwardly walked forward, carrying a brace of hares and left them on a flat stone in the centre of the space. Stepping back he waited. 

A soft sigh rushed out of the rocks though there be no breeze. He glanced over to his father who gave a small nod. Bowing low, he walked backwards out from the grotto as he had been taught. 

Never turn your back on a god. You never know what they might do. 

He isn’t sure how long he’s slept. It’s either been for a very long time or a very short time. It was late afternoon when they started the ordeal and evening when it ended because orcs can be terribly meticulous and can keep an animal alive for as long as they need. To make for good sport, as they say. 

So it was dark when he disappeared back into Orthanc and it’s dark now. Is it the same darkness? That is, the same night? He doesn’t know. 

Sæwine kept looking at him. Horses are expressive creatures. Gríma hadn’t been able to look until he was made to. 

And once it was over they began eating him. Which is when Gríma vomited over the steps of Orthanc. He had to clean it up, because one can’t leave a mess. 

His magic, his _skillset,_ as he preferred to call it, was something he brought upon himself. It was after one of Owensel and Baldir’s many attempts to toughen him up and he was in the forest with a foal — their father’s best. 

(Owensel, _The world’s hard, little brother, so you've got to be harder._ Gríma, insistent, _I am, I promise._ Owensel, in the tone of the well-meaning, _Look, you can’t fight, I’ve seen you with a sword, You’ve got the footwork. You’ve got the dance, but not the strength. So if you can’t fight things you have to weather them. Anyway, I’m not having a — well, I’m not having a weak brother._ Gríma found himself with Owensel and Baldir, standing at the top of a small incline that curled over the Limlight. Baldir, _Me and Owensel can hold our breath for two minutes. Can you?_ And Gríma shook his head because he and Brynja used to play a game where they tried to make themselves pass out and he never could hold his breath for very long. Baldir nodded as if he had expected that answer, said _Prove you’re not what the other boys call you,_ then pushed him in.) 

How do you ask a god to give you something when you don’t know what it is you want? He struggles to articulate it. To be strong, he thinks. Maybe Béma can reshape him to be like his brothers. Maybe Béma can make him better than his brothers so then he could beat them up and shove them in cold rivers and see how they like it. 

When he arrived where the sacrifices were laid he tied the foal (Éowulf, he had dubbed it) to a tree and set about clearing the altar. A gutted stag to be hauled off, old flowers, the remains of wine in a cup. Bugs crawled out when he poured it against a tree. He watched them scatter to the wind. 

Leading the foal to the altar he bid it lay down then, with shaking hands, took out his father’s hunting knife, and said: _I make this sacrifice to ask of you a gift._ He licked lips, added, _Something to make me stronger and better than my brothers._

The foal didn’t scream for long. 

Gríma’s hands were very red. 

The forest became close. The air difficult to breathe. The trees groaned, shifted of their own accord. His heart was so loud the birds must have heard it. From the carved archway a hand reached out of the darkness. Fingers long, thin, and crooked, like branches, beckoned him. 

_Is that you, Béma?_

_You wanted a god and a god has answered._

The hand beckoned a second time. Gríma followed it into the dark. 

Afterwards, he was by the dead body of the foal and his hands were still red from Éowulf’s blood and there were May beetles crawling into the flesh to bury their eggs. He watched flies gather on the unseeing eyes that had once looked at him with trust. 

When a rider chooses a horse, or a horse a rider, an oath is made between them. That they will support each other. The rider will care for the horse, honour the horse, love and tend the horse and in return the horse will bear the rider, will render service and be a companion in whatever trade it is the rider occupies. 

Sæwine chose him. Éowulf hadn’t, but the expectation of care and reciprocity was there. He thought Gríma wouldn’t hurt him. And Gríma did. Because Gríma wanted to be better than those around him and was willing to sacrifice anything for it. 

Sæwine, though. He’d never have given up Sæwine. Not for all the words in the world. Not for all the ability to persuade, to coax and cajole and make meaning out of illformed ideas. Not for all the gods in all the forests. 

He wonders if he will always shatter oaths and kill horses. Never clumsy, careful with his hands, steady on his feet, he still manages to break most things in his life. Because he chooses to. Because they are his to break. 

But he didn’t choose this. He didn’t choose it for Sæwine. He chose it for himself and now, thinks, he made the fatal mistake of assuming it possible to unweave the fate of a rider from that of his horse. 

Gríma picks at his nails. Stares at the juncture where floor meets wall. Continues to ignore the existence of a bed. There is something comforting in the hardness of stone. He heard a story once, at some point in the past, Éomer told it him, he thinks. It was about a creature who tore into mead halls and ate up all the inhabitants. Then, one day, a great warrior appeared to drive out the moor-walker, the shadow-eater, night-goer. As they fought, the warrior spoke with the feared destroyer and devourer of human-kind and said, _You will sing a sweet song for me._ The creature howled in response. Then the warrior said, _Sing, beast. Sing for the hardness of walls._ And he bashed the monster’s head into the walls. _Sing for the hardness of floors._ And he crushed the thing’s head against the floor. 

Anyway, Gríma thinks, staring at the floor and the walls, Sing for the hardness of floors and walls. 

And doors, he adds as someone knocks on his. The warrior forgot about doors. 

Scraping himself up, he opens the door wearing an ugly expression to find Kertug on the other side, also wearing an ugly expression. Though, to Gríma’s mind, Kertug has the misfortune of being perpetually ugly whereas he makes the decision to be. At least with regards to his facial expressions. The rest of it can’t be helped. 

‘What?’ 

‘Sharky wants to see you,’ the orc answers. 

Gríma nods. Right. Saruman. Can a warrior come and make that man sing about walls and floors? Aloud: ‘Does Saruman know you all call him Sharky?’ 

Kertug grins, ‘Yes. He believes it an honourific. Since he can’t be bothered to learn the tongue of Moria.’ She thinks on this then adds, ‘And it is. Sort of. In a manner of speaking.’ 

‘Isn’t it just short for old man?’ 

‘You have been picking up our language. And here I thought you a lost cause.’ 

Gríma sneers, ‘I’ll listen but won’t speak it. Anyway, insults are the easiest thing to learn.’ 

‘Don’t your kind respect the elderly?’ 

‘Sure. But we call them grandfather and grandmother, not old man.’ 

Kertug’s laugh is sharp as honed rock. It grates. Gríma gives a tense smile, asks what it is Saruman wants from him. Thinks he’s surely been punished enough for his failures. But perhaps not. The plans he’s ruined were extensive. 

Kertug shrugs. ‘No idea. I don’t ask questions. I told you before, I work on the philosophy of the less I know the better.’ 

‘Admirable,’ Gríma mutters, stepping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him. It closes with a click that echoes. 

‘I think so.’ Kertug glances up at him with a sly expression. ‘A philosophy you should take on.’ 

‘Should I?’ 

‘Oh yes. Sharky says you have too much a tendency to listen at keyholes when you shouldn’t. But then, what else is there to do around here?’ 

‘Saruman seems to confide much in you.’ 

‘Oh no. I just happen to hear things.’ 

‘At keyholes?’

‘Well, I’m closer to their height than you. What do they feed you horse lords to make you all so tall?’ 

Gríma gives a mirthless smile. They walk the remainder of the distance to Saruman’s study in silence. 

The door is large, thick oak painted black. The iron hinges wrought with fine craftsmanship. Gríma stands for several minutes staring at the handle. The nails. The elaborate designs carved into it that are caught in the flickering light of candles lining Orthanc’s dim hallways. A deep breath in, he knocks softly. 

‘Come.’ 

The door opens on its own accord. 

Gríma steps in and the door closes behind him. He stands in the entrance way of the study, arms folded and pressed against his stomach. He fidgets with the open sleeves of his surcoat. 

‘My lord, you sent for me?’ 

Saruman turns in his chair and motions for Gríma to enter. 

‘Helm’s Deep. Should Théoden seek to shelter there instead of Edoras, where is the fortress structurally the weakest?’ 

Gríma licks lips, tries to catch a glimpse of the books open on Saruman’s desk but he is too far across the room and the wizard is sitting in such a manner to block most from view. ‘The Hornburg is fairly impregnable, my lord. But the deeping wall has a few points.’ 

‘And if we destroy the wall the fortress falls.’ 

‘The fortress will be compromised, yes,’ Gríma says, wincing. He waits for a response. One does not come. Saruman sits, cold and still as a statue. Waiting. ‘To take Helm’s Deep you must take the Hornburg. Destroying the deeping wall won’t get you that.’ 

‘And if we ignored Helm’s Deep and took Edoras instead?’ 

‘Théoden will pick your army off piecemeal.’ 

Saruman scowls. ‘With what? His paltry forces? He has too few to stand up to the might of Isengard.’ 

‘It’s not strength, my lord, that will win this battle. Let us say you ignore Helm’s Deep and move forces to take Edoras. It is a six day march from here to the city, if you go hard. But let us say seven or eight to include contingencies. An army can carry supplies that will last, if you stretch them, up to eight days. Ten if you’re really pushing them. The siege will last several weeks, if not longer. Sieges of Edoras have lasted _months_ , historically.’ 

‘I fail to see your point.’ 

‘Well, your army is going to need to forage.’ 

‘So? All armies forage.’ 

‘And Théoden is going to be sitting pretty in Helm’s Deep with two thousand good riders. He and Éomer will send out small raiding parties to pick off your foragers. He will also send parties in the middle of the night to wage a reign of terror on the fringe of the army. Slowly, he will pick away at it. You have to take Helm’s Deep before you take Edoras. And you cannot take Helm’s Deep without taking the Hornburg.’ 

Saruman taps the edge of his desk. Long, slender finger like a claw, an insect’s mandible, tapping a steady rhythm. 

Gríma thinks every muscle in his body has been coiled for the last fifty-six hours. He cannot imagine unwinding. 

‘There are parts of this plan you are unaware of,’ Saruman says after a minute. ‘My army has already begun emptying out and the final ones are departing tonight for Helms Deep. With them is fire powder. It has the ability to undo stone. Where in the wall is it the weakest?’ 

‘There’s a drain that is just south of the centre. It allows a stream to flow out from the White Mountains. I suspect that is the weakest point.’ 

‘And the Hornburg?’ 

Gríma shrugs. It’s as he said, the fortress has never been taken. Saruman’s heavy stare, though, does not brook _I don’t know_ as an answer. Sucking in breath through teeth Gríma says, ‘I suppose I would recommend the doors. They’re strong, battering rams have never really worked. But the archways and stonework around them might afford some structural weakness that when blasted open could make the doors more penetrable.’ 

Saruman slowly nods. Turns back around and takes up his quill. Gríma stands, cold and hot at the same time. He is sweating. He is trying not to shiver.

‘Have you eaten?’ Saruman asks over his shoulder. 

‘No, my lord. But I’m not hungry.’ 

‘When did you last eat?’ 

Gríma can’t remember. Oh, supper. The night before he left Edoras. Two and a half days ago, give or take. He doesn’t know what time it is. What day it is. Nothing holds much meaning when all you see of the sky is a sliver through a window that is but a thin slice from rock. 

‘Eat.’ Saruman motions to a table against the wall where sits a plate of food. Gríma slowly approaches, casting furtive glances over to the wizard who ignores him. On the plate is a roasted meat of some kind, things that may be vegetables. It is cold, sauce and fat mixed and congealed. 

‘I’m alright, my lord.’ He says. ‘I’ll eat later.’ 

‘I said eat.’ 

Gríma stares at the food. Takes up the knife and prods what he thinks is a carrot. There are other root vegetables present, turnips maybe. He misses summer and autumn, when the food on offer is more varied and the harvests are coming in and the air smells of fresh cut wheat and grasses and bonfires for roasts. 

From the corner of his eye Saruman’s wrist flicks. The plate slides from the table and crashes on the floor. Pewter, it sounds like a crack of ice as it hits the stone. Gríma stands, looking down at the food. Holding the knife in left hand with a piece of carrot stuck on it.

‘Oh dear,’ Saruman hums, back still to Gríma. ‘Now you’ll have to eat it off the floor. It is a good thing you’re just a worm. Vermin, really. Worthless beings eat what they are given and are thankful for it.’ 

Gríma silently, and with great deliberation, eats the piece of carrot from his knife. 

‘Your meal awaits.’ 

Waits scattered on the floor. Slowly kneeling down, he rights the upturned plate and prods the meat back on, the turnips and carrots and whatever else is in the melee called supper. 

‘What do you say?’ 

Gríma glances up towards Saruman. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ 

‘You sound petulant.’ A deep sigh. ‘But you always sound petulant. It was something I ignored while you were useful to me. Alas, what a mistake it was for me to trust you. To even think you worthy of it. Eat.’ 

Gríma stabs another carrot slice and eats it. The cold grease of the meat coats his mouth. But he swallows it and does it again. And again. He stares at a spot on the floor in front of him. It is a speck of white amidst the black. An imperfection, he thinks. A single spot of white that mars this beastly place. 

A single flash of light. 

Boromir said, _He is a man of Rohan. Not an animal._ But the lord of Gondor does not know him. Does not understand that, when broken down to bare essentials, Gríma has always been the left over pieces. Brynja was born with all the goodness, kindness, beauty. He reasons this is due to the fact that human bodies are limited. Surely they can create only one whole person, so if there are two, the second will make shift with the remnants on offer. 

He pauses over the meat. Doesn’t think he can stomach it. 

‘Don’t let it go to waste,’ Saruman’s voice slithers down Gríma’s back. 

Gríma cuts a piece and eats it. It’s a bit sweet, a bit gamey. Reminds him somewhat of venison, but not like any venison he’s eaten before. 

‘How is it?’ 

‘Fine.’ Gríma swallows. His eyes remain fixed on the white spot. 

‘Good. Remind me, what was your horse’s name?’ 

‘Sæwine.’ 

‘Right. Well, I’m sure Sæwine will be pleased to have been useful to its master even in death.’ 

Gríma freezes. 

The world stops. 

He coughs, makes a noise like a whine. 

White noise fills his ears. He’s going to be sick, he thinks. He’s going to vomit again. He grips the pommel of the knife hard enough to score deep impressions into his palm. 

He stares at the plate. The half-finished meal. 

To eat a horse is as good as having eaten a person. 

He doesn’t think he’s breathing but he must be for he is still upright, still alive. Saruman is speaking — he assumes he’s being told to finish what is before him. Scolded like a child. Stiffly, he reaches forward and cuts a piece. Gags it back onto the plate. Takes it up again and manages to swallow it down. 

His stomach wishes to revolt. 

His entire body wishes to revolt. 

His mind is too absent for revolt. 

He eats another piece. 

It occurs to him, in a distant fashion, that he’s going to kill Saruman. He’s going to kill Saruman and feed him to his wargs. Or his orcs. Or whatever. Leave him for the crows to peck out his eyes and tongue — the soft bits of the face they go for first. 

_But you won’t do it,_ a voice inside him says. _Because you’re too much a coward to do it. Have always been a coward. How long can you hold your breath? I can hold mine for two minutes. How far can you swim? I can swim to the deep places of the rivers of the earth._

His hand shakes as it divides the final pieces. 

Boromir said he deserved to be treated with the dignity due to all people, a noble sentiment, but horses are worth more than humans. Sæwine is worth more than him. It should not be Sæwine who suffered because he failed. 

‘It is only your kind who find this repulsive,’ Saruman is saying conversationally when Gríma manages to pay attention. ‘Plenty of other people eat horse.’ Saruman turns, now, to look at him. With his shivery smile, his eyes like gimlets. ‘Tell me, you said Lord Boromir was there with another man. Who was this person?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ 

‘What did he look like?’ 

Shit, Gríma thinks. He looked like shit. Not unlike himself, at present. ‘Tall, black hair, grey eyes.’ 

‘A man of Gondor?’ 

Gríma shrugs. May as well be. Could be a man from anywhere. He recalls a flash of green on the hand. His knees hurt from the stone. He recalls that he was once told that obsidian was the rock that purified. Nothing here is pure. 

‘He had a ring. Green stone, emerald maybe.’ 

Saruman muses over this for a long while. The conversation is a place to rest from the reality that is around Gríma. The reality of what is inside of him. He hasn’t moved from where he kneels by the plate, the remains of spilt food. 

‘What design was this ring?’

‘I don’t know. He was a ways off from me. I caught but a glimpse.’ 

‘Did it have two snakes?’ 

Gríma thinks it might have. But he wouldn’t stake his life on it. Why the concern about a grubby ranger from Gondor? Someone who sleeps wild and looks to be the sort of man who is half-feral. Like children raised by wolves in the dark of Fangorn — those old stories one hears. 

‘It might have,’ he said at last. ‘He was friendly with Gandalf, if that helps.’ 

‘And the Steward’s son?’ 

‘Oh yes.’ 

The plate sits in front of him. The remains of sauce and cold fat smeared across the surface. His throat constricts and loosens. He thinks he wants to vomit then die. He is one hundred feet in the air, hanging above his body and Saruman and the floor and the grease on the floor and the knife with its carved handle of a water bird, the dipped bill and large eyes. 

‘So,’ Saruman sighs, his voice low. Gríma is listening and not listening. ‘Gandalf thinks he has found Isildur’s heir.’

Gríma blinks. Abstractly he thinks his back and shoulders might hurt as much as his knees. Then, with further disinterested interest: Isildur’s heir? Now there’s a thing. But the image of a king-in-hiding and the image of the man who walked in from the bush do not meld together. Kings should look a certain way. How else will you know they are a king if they are not performing kingship? There’s a reason you cannot let people of the lower ranks wear kidskin gloves and ermine and brocades and damask and the colour cobalt blue, certain reds, purples, yellows pricked out with gold, because those are the clothes of lords. 

Kings do not roll out of trees and look as if the entirety of the wilds of Middle Earth are contained within one body. 

Or they can, but they are not the kings of places like Gondor. 

‘Did he have a sword?’ Saruman’s voice cuts through the thoughts Gríma is having and not having because he is present and not present. 

There was a sword, Gríma supposes. A sword that could be called meaningful. Was it Narsil? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that when he left Meduseld it tugged at the tethers of his mind. He turned, saw it tucked in a corner, and understood it to be important. One of the little tricks he has, one of the little spellcrafts, skills, is knowing when a sacred object is present. This was one. 

‘No,’ Gríma says. ‘Well, there was a sword. But it wasn’t anything special. I wouldn’t look at it and think: this is the blade that cut the ring from Sauron’s hand.’ 

Saruman continues staring at Gríma. It's been many minutes. Or hours. Gríma doesn’t know how long he has been kneeling. It took him a long time to finish what was served him. Maybe it’s been days. Saruman appears to come to a conclusion of some sort as he shifts his attention from Gríma to the full scene — floor, filth, man in filth on floor. 

‘I see you’ve finished. Clean the floor. You’ve made a mess. Even dogs are less filthy than you.’ 

Gríma takes up the plate, stands, and puts it on the table. Saruman has turned back around to his books, his plans and schemes. Gríma despairs at the scattered remains he wasn’t able to scrape onto the plate. Scattered remains of Sæwine. There is nothing to wipe it up with, save his own clothes. Which have already been used to mop up the front steps he was sick on earlier. 

The cunning side of him that latched onto the knowledge of the reappearance of the heir to Isildur deserts him. Because what does that matter? Sauron will still kill them all and, in the end, Isildur fell. Because he was just a man, not a hero from legends. The same as how this supposed heir with Lord Boromir and Gandalf is just a man. 

Ring or no ring, Sauron will invade like a never ending wave over loose soil to strip land bare and erode the rock below. 

And him? Well, he’s here being killed by inches. Because that is what Saruman intends. He can think of no other reason for killing a horse then making his master eat it if he didn’t mean to kill that person by inches. Because he already has killed them. When a horse dies, it is as if a fibre of the heart is plucked out and let loose to the winds. 

It’s as good as butchering a man's children and cooking them. You only do that if you want to slowly, bit by bit, destroy a person. Body, soul, and mind. And Saruman is right. Gríma has never been able to stomach pain. There’s not a single ounce of bravery in him. And gods, being a foolish man atop of being a cowardly one, he always told himself that bravery was short form for stupidity and that he, at least, was alive when others were dead. 

And it’s been a long time since he was pushed into a river. Told to hold his breath for minutes and minutes. Made to stand on a stool with a rope around neck as a test of mental endurance (will you stand there for ten minutes, you can’t move your hands, can’t take the rope off, the little stool will wobble on roots of trees, it is a way to test your mettle, your bravery in the face of uncertainty) — all those stupid games children play. 

And if it had just been him? He doesn’t know. He’d probably clean the floor then slink off into whatever room he was kindly bestowed by the wizard. 

But Sæwine deserved better. Sæwine was his to protect. There are few duties Gríma won’t shirk and this is one. Because it is a sacred one. There are oaths to liegelords, which are to be respected and revered. Then there are oaths to your horses, and they are _holy._

To honour and uphold that duty now means there can be but one course of action. Gríma has paid his weregild for failing the wizard. The wizard must pay his weregild for slaughtering a horse of the Marc. _His_ horse. 

Adjusting the knife Gríma slowly approaches the chair. Oh, he’ll probably die doing this but he doesn’t much care.

It is a rush: he comes at Saruman from an angle. Saruman’s hand juts out and Gríma finds himself slammed across the room. Hitting the wall, his head smacks backwards, breath leaves lungs in a single gust. He drops to the floor gasping, black dots swirling before his eyes.

Saruman pushes his chair back and walks over. Gríma, wheezing on the ground, can see the wizard’s gown sweeping as he approaches. 

‘You always did overreact,’ Saruman hisses. Leaning over, he gingerly pulls Gríma partially up by his hair. ‘A dog does not bite its master’s hand without suffering punishment. And you are less than a dog. Hounds can be trained and put to good use. You are a foul and dirty thing who is of no use to anyone.' He lets go. Gríma drops back down, chin catching the floor. Saruman shakes his head, ‘After all I did for you, after all I gave you, trusted you, this is how you seek to repay me? Thankless.’ 

‘Kertug,’ Saruman calls as he returns to his chair. ‘This one can be given a room down below. But lock the door. He’s proving difficult. Then, send for Mauhúr. I wish to discuss the plan for Helm’s Deep before they head out.’ 

Kertug half-bows, looks at Gríma with mild interest. Gríma manages to get to his hands and knees before Kertug drags him upright. ‘Come on,’ the orc says, prodding Gríma’s back. ‘Down to the dank underground with you.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we're almost out of the violence-to-animals thicket with Grima.


	15. The Naming of Helm's Deep According to Legend

The Fords of Isen sit at a small turn in the river that runs wide and shallow enough that when the waters are high, a rare event, they barely reach a man’s waist. When it’s low, the state of affairs most of the year, it’s a veritable stroll. Though the last six months have been wet ones in Rohan, so marshland has grown itself outward and rivers swell with excess water. The Fords, though, remain easily passable. 

On either side of the river thin pines and reedy bush provide some cover for soldiers on foot but hardly enough for an ambush and so, despite the sentries posted to keep watch, their arrival would have been witnessed from afar. 

The first sign they’ve come upon the Ford are bodies prepared for burial, some covered with linen, others with small rocks to keep vermin from preying on them before they are able to be interred. Rohan doesn’t cremate their dead. Boromir had asked about it once, when there was a delegate visiting Minas Tirith in the midst of a funeral for Lady Orniel, wife of one of Denethor’s counsellors. Swathed in a white shroud and adorned with white carnations she was placed on a pier to become smoke. Her ash rained down on them. Soft bits of former-body littering hair and shoulders. 

The man, Yrmenlaf, if Boromir remembers the name right, had been aghast. _You burn your dead? How will they find their way to the halls of their forefathers?_

_Their spirit does._

_And what will she do with hundreds of flowers in the halls? Where are her clothes, her jewels, food, wine, knives, dishes, shields - whatever it is the women of Gondor need in the afterlife. Does she need a horse? What about a sacrifice so the landwights will let her go? Otherwise they might keep her bound to the earth._

_Um. Not really a concern here._

Yrmenlaf had sniffed, wrinkled his nose for the air was the smell of cedar and flesh. Boromir believes, to this day, it was in that moment Yrmenlaf decided everyone in Gondor was mildly barbaric. 

Later, Boromir had said, _Some of us are buried. It depends on where you're from and your family’s traditions._

Yrmenlaf had been skeptical: _I see._ Then, a deep sigh, _I know someone back home who’ll want to know the details of your funerary customs. Tell me what you can of them so I may pass the information on to him. He’s a collector of sorts._

Aside from the dead men, there are dead orcs and horses and hounds of war with their chest plates and vicious muzzles red and black with blood. All of these, too, are laid out in orderly rows. Some for burial, others for burning. Then, the living men, horses and hounds of war. The smell of campfire. Remains of a quickly built pike wall bear their cruel spoils. 

Théoden is announced with a succession of trumpet calls which are answered by a single, long clear note. Boromir cranes around Aragorn who is rude and blocking his view, to see a man of middling age and middling height with dark blond hair almost brown approach. A glimpse of a strong nose, a cheek scarred and misshapen lip from the wound. A flash of tooth that is barred forever to the world. 

The man is announced as Lord Cynric of Harrowdale, second in command to Lord Erkenbrand. 

‘My lord king,’ Cynric bows, fellow lords flanking either side also sink low. ‘I am glad to see you and your riders. More than I can say. And you, my lord king, it is a pleasure to see that you are riding with us.’ 

Théoden dismounts and grasps Cynric by the arms, a familial hug. ‘I am late, inexcusably late, in attending to this. And, let us say, I’ve not been well. But I am now recovered. Tell me, where is Erkenbrand? I had thought to meet him here.’ 

‘He and a few chosen have gone after the remnants of Saruman’s forces. As you can see, we were pressed and didn’t hold the line. But they didn’t seek to seal the victory, which is strange. They could have taken the Ford, my lord-kuning, but as soon as they saw that we had broken rank, and that Théodred was down, they scattered to the winds.’ 

Cynric pauses then says something in Rohirric which Boromir cannot make out. He indelicately prods Aragorn’s shoulder, hisses, ‘What did he say?’ 

Aragorn, out the side of his mouth, ‘They didn’t know what to make of Saruman’s forces. Their behaviour didn’t make sense.’ 

‘Green army led by a green commander.’ Then, below breath, ‘Another reason we should have kept that advisor on a short leash. Put him in a linen cupboard if they didn’t have a cell. He presumably knows how Théoden fights.’ 

Aragorn snorts but does a half-head-tilt in agreement before turning attention back to Cynric who has returned to Westron, the preferred language of his king. 

‘Anyway, all of this is to say, my lord, that Erkenbrand wanted to take advantage of their disorder and give them a bit of a chase across the fields.’ Cynric’s face breaks into a slow smile. ‘We also heard wargs were about. If they wish to make merry havoc with us we can more than give it back.’ 

Théoden says that is all well and good. He came expecting to find ruin and instead is greeted with an infinitely salvageable situation. A glance around at the dead lain out, his face closes. He breathes out, eyes looking at Cynric but not seeing him. Clasping the man by his arms again he whispers low enough that Boromir can barely hear him: ‘Show me where my son was slain, then we will attend to business.’ 

Théodred’s last breath was in a pool of water. A shallow one, near the shoreline. Gentle ripples, it’s partially cut off from the main flow by a small sand bank. When he died, he would have been looking up to pines and, through their sparse branches, the sky. 

A runestone, standing four feet tall, marks where he fell and Théoden kneels before it in silence. At the head of the stone is carved a simple rendition of the horse of the house of Eorl and below it, a flower. Spears circle the two image with a carved down the centre of the stone. At the very top is a half circle within a larger circle. 

‘Eclipsed sun,’ Aragorn whispers. ‘It’s apparently supposed to curse the person who slew the dead.’ 

‘Good,’ Gimli mutters. ‘We can use all the help we can get.’ 

As Théoden stands he scoops water with his hands and bathes the front of the stone softly speaking Sindarin: _this stone be the river of the soul and know that we will meet in the halls of our forebearers. I will know my son again._

‘Nothing stops for war,’ Mithrandir says as Cynric troops off to summon the remaining lords and chieftains for a brief council. ‘Even in grief we must eat.’ 

Boromir is drinking water when he hears this and turns to see Mithrandir standing with his hand on Théoden’s shoulder. He gently squeezes and his face is the softest Boromir has ever seen it. 

‘But gods, Gandalf, why must we endure such things?’ Théoden asks, voice hoarse. But even in the depth of this grief, a brief moment where it clearly threatens to overrun, Théoden is pulling himself back. He is reshaping his face. Making himself stern and strong as the standing stone to his son which is what a king should be. 

Mithrandir shakes his head. His hand drops down to rest on sword hilt. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. And it is said with such heaviness. Boromir thinks: _Oh. He’s exhausted._ ‘And even if I knew why, I doubt I could explain it. I think it’s one of those things that is beyond words.’

Deciding to find Gimli, Boromir is dragged into a small gathering made up of his friend, Aragorn, Háma, Gundahar and a few other riders. The young guard of Théoden’s is expounding in the way young men do: ‘Théodred died a brave death.’

‘He did,’ Ceorl, a rider of Erkenbrand’s, agrees. ‘I saw him fall. He was brave to the very end.’ 

‘My father would say we’re all dying of bravery,’ Gimli replies. Gundahar juts out his chin, he did not think dwarves to be wary of battle. ‘We’re not. Oh my lad, _trust_ me. We’re not. If anything, we head too eagerly into it. But my father’s seen many things and lived many lives. After a while it starts to seem a waste. Théodred was how old?’ 

‘One and forty, my lord.’ 

‘One and forty. Young, at least by my people’s standards. Still much of his life left to live. Did he leave behind children? No. Well, I suppose that’s a blessing. Anyway, all these men who died, while their deaths weren’t in vain, there is something heartbreaking about them.’ 

‘Sure,’ Gundahar shrugs. ‘Death is sad. But if you do not die bravely and with honour you are less than dirt. In the end that’s all we have to our names, isn’t it? Honour. And if you don’t have honour, well, I suppose you won’t die any quicker, but you’ll have wasted your short time in the light. But maybe that changes when you are old and you see things differently.’ A glance towards Háma whose hair is threaded with silver. Whose face is made of gentle dips of valleys and lines soft as a lullaby. Deciding to continue, he adds, ‘We of Éomarc are not a people who go quietly into death. Even the most timid of us will fight, in the end.’ 

Háma laughs at the chin, the puffed chest. He says, ‘Sure, boy. We’re not a quiet people. Nor an easily deterred people. The gods know well how we maim ourselves for heroism. How we piecemeal ourselves for glory. But I’m old, as you say, and so perhaps I am a bit tired of it all. When I was young, though, I was just like you.’ 

When Théoden calls for the council to form Boromir finds himself beside the eager Gundahar who whispers, in his thickly accented Westron, many questions about the battles Boromir has seen. They are different to Éomarc, the younger man explains. 

‘You are Captain of the White Tower?’ Gundahar asks, somewhat in awe. 

‘High Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of Minas Tirith’s army, to be precise.’ A slight smile at the young man’s expression of: _oooh_. ‘It’s not as exciting, nor as fancy, as it sounds.’ 

‘When was your first battle? How old were you?’ 

Over Gundahar’s head Boromir spies Aragorn who mouths, with evident amusement: _new friend._

‘Not old enough. But, if you’d like, I’ll share a few stories later. There are plenty of moments of heroism that should please you. Also plenty of complete stupidity. But people lived, so it’s funny now.’ 

Mithrandir, wryly, ‘The line between bravery and stupidity…’

‘Try a new one,’ Boromir replies, if a bit tartly. ‘I’ve heard your moralizing since I was ten.’ 

Gundahar gapes at him and Mithrandir. Boromir smiles at both with great and dedicated politeness as he scoots past towards Aragorn and Gimli. Legolas loiters at the edge of the group, apparently disinterested in their chattering. 

‘My lords,’ Théoden speaks loudly, first in Rohirric then Westron. Everyone quiets. ‘It is my understanding that, despite Saruman’s retreat, you have determined the Fords indefensible.’ 

‘When the army returns, and it will return, we are too few to hold it. Even with your aid,’ Cynric explains. ‘The first skirmish, when Lord Théodred fell, was strange. The best of the orc fighters focused solely on him which leads us to wonder how much of it was a battle and how much of it was an assassination.’ 

Low murmurings erupt amongst the men. Soldiers loitering at a respectful distance watch with interest. 

‘Most likely the latter,’ Mithrandir says. ‘Saruman’s aim has been to undermine the house of Eorl, what better way than to slay the king’s only son? Especially as Théodred left no heir.’ 

‘The second battle,’ Cynric continues once the murmurings have quieted. ‘Was what you would expect. And the only reason we managed to retake the Fords was that Saruman’s forces didn’t press their victory. When Isengard’s entire host comes down through here, though? There is no doubt that we will fall. Do we know if they’ve left yet?’ 

Everyone shakes their heads. No, no one knows if Isengard has emptied itself. No one knows anything. Only that it is going to happen soon, and when it does, it will be bitter and horrible, as all battles are. 

Mithrandir glances around at the men, the dead, the peaceful waters of the river, the runestone lonely at the edge of the water. He clears his throat, Théoden nods for him to speak. ‘My advice would be to leave a few of Erkenbrand and Cynric’s men here to bury as many of the dead as they can, ahead of Saruman’s army, before retreating. The rest should turn around and head for Helms’ Deep. I myself must ride out,’ he squints to the eastern horizon. ‘I’ve a few things I must see to. Worry not, I should return in time.’ 

Théoden tilts back on his heels, he regards the faces of his men. Whispers to himself, and it seems to Boromir he’s mouthing through options. Plans, contingency plans, contingency plans of contingency plans. 

At length the king agrees: ‘Yes, I think that the most reasonable approach. I’ll send a rider ahead to meet Éomer on the road so he won’t waste a journey. My lords Boromir, Aragorn, have you thoughts?’ 

Aragorn shakes his head, no this seems a logical approach. Boromir duly agrees. Is that some relief on Théoden’s face? Did he expect contrariness from them? Boromir supposes it must be due to the lingering awkwardness of the entire situation. Heir in waiting, Steward’s son, Mithrandir being mysterious, what are they doing mucking about in Rohan? They haven’t _exactly_ explained. 

Théoden, ‘Cynric, can you spare fifty men to bury the dead? The rest will march to Helm’s Deep. We will ride ahead and begin readying the fortress for a siege. How are the supplies?’ 

‘Good, my lord. As I’m sure you saw on your way here, Erkenbrand pulled many of the farmers and labourers of the Westfold inside the walls already. Those who were most at risk to the Dunlander and orc raids. But we have supplies that will last us, and the men you and Éomer bring, for a month. Month and a half if we stretch it. But there are ways out of the caves to forage if we become desperate.’ 

‘Right, we will let the men rest for another hour, then we head out. Bada, I would have you ride now so as to meet Éomer the sooner. If you and he make it to Helm’s Deep ahead of us instruct the men to start preparations. They’ll know what to do.’ 

Workmanship generaling, Boromir thinks happily, there’s nothing quite like it. He would take the steady hand of someone like Théoden over brash theatrics any day. 

Settling on a rock with water and a bag of dried fruit one of Cynric’s men spared, Boromir watches Legolas sit himself aside from the men and fold his legs beneath him, back straight, his eyes closed.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Meditating,’ Gimli replies. He fingers the edge of his axe before rummaging for his whetstone. ‘He does it from time to time. Haven’t you noticed?’ 

‘Can’t say I have.’ 

Gimli glances up with a clear expression of: _where have you been?_ Which is a great question. Boromir sometimes wonders it himself. Where has he been? Here and everywhere else and nowhere. 

He is in his present body that exists in this present day by the grace of his friends and providential good luck. The gods and all of that. He also spends some time thinking about a life he might have lived if he had been born to a different father and if Aragorn had been born to a different father and if the world was not facing the potential for eternal darkness. He also spends time thinking about the present where his body is not. Which is to say, home. 

So, he’s been a bit of everywhere. 

Legolas breathes out with great care. Smooths palms on knees then becomes stone in his stillness. Gimli, still rummaging, ‘He told me that it’s about the individual discovering the universal.’ 

‘Faramir would like that.’ 

‘Can’t wait to meet him,’ Gimli grins up. ‘Mostly can’t wait to see the two of you interact. He sounds entirely different to you.’ 

‘He is. And vastly superior. In all the ways that matter.’ 

Gimli rolls his eyes. Makes a face Boromir knows well. It is a face that says: _I disagree, please desist from speaking ill about yourself._ It is a face Gimli has put on for many a member of the Fellowship. When they had a Fellowship. 

Boromir picks at his fruit, it’s a dried apple he thinks. And maybe cranberries. He chews ruefully on them. Wonders about Merry and Pippin. Mithrandir continues to insist that they are safe, and perhaps they are. Their safeness does not take away their loss. Boromir did not expect to miss them so keenly. Even Frodo and Sam, neither of whom he was particularly close to. There is something lacking, now only five remain. A part of the soul of who they all had been has fractured. 

Mostly, he misses the jokes. The way Merry and Pippin played off each other. How they could make even Mithrandir laugh. The unity of the nine. It is bittersweet, those memories. For each good one he has, and there are many, indeed they overflow, he cannot help but think: _Always in the background was the ring._ When he joked with Merry about crashing a Halfling wedding to partake of these apparently shire-famous pub-crawls, it had been him who jested. But it had also been the ring. 

He wants a chance to have that back without the taint of possession. 

It is late evening and Helm’s Deep remains many leagues ahead of them. The shelf of the mountains juts up stark and steep from the plains. The dusty, distant White Mountain peaks cut into air. Boromir finds himself in his usual spot of riding beside Aragorn. Gimli is with Ceorl _for a change of scenery_. Legolas, in the midst of the men, appears morose. 

The thought of possession lingers from the previous day’s conversation - the one about the woman in Rhun who screamed in Skoltse and many other languages besides. A gabbling attempt at making meaning. And the precious day feels like the same day as this one for the rhythm of night meaning sleep has once again been disturbed by Théoden’s need to ride out late from Edoras, through past midnight to morn with its hazy sun. 

He thinks he ought to be used to it by now. It’s like the early days of the Fellowship, that bizarre alteration of existence lends itself to strange dreams and maudlin thoughts. 

The only possessions he has heard about, whether it be supposedly by vengeful spirit, local wight, trickster being made up of fire and wind or earth and root, have always been, well, constructed. 

Witnessing one, seeing the strange doubling of consciousness in a single body, disconcerts. When Boromir looked in Théoden’s eyes at Meduseld he could see the king and someone else. Saruman existed within Théoden at the same time as Théoden existed within himself. Two sense of selves within the same body. 

Parasitic, really. 

He shakes his head, the closeness to his own case makes him uncomfortable. Makes him aware of himself in a strange, deeply physical fashion. That is, he is aware of skin against linen shift against tunic against leather jerkin, gauntlets, boots, sword, belt, straps of his pack against chest, elven brooch pressed against his throat, how hair shifts in the breeze. 

They are riding through farmland made eerie for the lack of people, the fields half-ploughed, all springtime activities temporarily abandoned. Walls and fences are in the midst of being mended. Roofs rethatched. 

Ahead, Cynric is updating Théoden on all that has occurred under Erkenbrand’s leadership of the West Fold. Boromir hears snippets of _the Hornburg is already being repaired as is the Deeping Wall_ and _not sure we’ve enough men to man the front dykes_ and _if it’s to be a siege with a green army I can’t see it lasting more than a month, but we’ll assume the worst._ It’s sort of a comforting lull, the ins and outs of campaigning. Strange, to not be in Théoden’s position. To be passive and ambiguous on the sidelines. 

‘Do you think Théoden a good king?’ Aragorn asks. 

‘I think him capable. He’s a reliable general. Steady under stress, makes sound decisions, though he has his moments of being a little brash in the field.’ 

‘He has quite the legacy to live up to.’ 

‘Yes,’ Boromir draws out the word. ‘Have you been to Helm’s Deep?’ 

Aragorn shakes his head. He’s ridden with Théoden, yes, many years ago, but he has never been to Helm’s Deep. An expression Boromir can’t decipher appeads. ‘Do you know why it’s called Helm’s Deep?’ 

‘Named for one of their kings, right? Helm Hammerhand took refuge in the fortress when the wild men invaded. Ah, Mithrandir would be proud.’ 

‘You like the stories of battles though.’ 

‘Sure, but it doesn’t mean I remember all the details.’ 

‘It was a bad winter,’ Aragorn begins after a pause to contemplate the scenery. Collect thoughts. ‘Helm lost his son to the Dunlanders and Edoras had fallen. One of the few times in its long and storied history. Apparently he went a bit,’ Aragorn tilts hand side to side. 

‘Ah.’ 

‘Yes. During that winter he began creeping out from the Hornburg and, alone, he would sneak into the enemy’s camp to strangle men in their sleep. He had stopped eating at this point, from grief, and bathing, wore the same clothes, never shaved. So, as this thin, vengeful living wraith he haunted the Dunlanders.’ 

Boromir squints at Aragorn then ahead to Théoden. At length, ‘Well. That wasn’t the version I was taught as a child. Gods, Rohan, they really don’t do things in halves in this country.’ 

‘You smile as you say that so I can only assume you approve.’ 

Shrugging Boromir says that sure he does, why not? He understands much more of the Rohirric than the cool removal of elves. Which he says aloud prompting to Aragorn to laugh very loudly for a good while. 

‘Well?’ Boromir asks with a put-upon frown. ‘Are you going to explain why you’ve just made all the men stare at us.’ (Behind Aragorn Boromir watches Háma snort and looks away. Whacks Gundahar’s arm and tells him to stop staring at the lords. They’re from Gondor. They do things differently down there.) 

‘Remind me to tell you about Elrond’s strong aversion to oaths.’ He swallows his smile then, more sombrely, ‘It isn’t a happy tale, but no one involved can ever be described as cool or removed. Anyway, Helm Hammerhand died that winter. He was found in an early morning hour, frozen to the side of the Hornburg. Hence why his name is forever attached to the fortress.’ 

Boromir lets out a breath. ‘There’s an ending to a life I wouldn’t want to replicate.’ 

‘It was the death of his son that did it. The grief.’ 

Which is its own kind of possession. Boromir watches Théoden laugh at something Cynric says but thinks that behind the smile, within the depths of the man’s eyes, another Théoden lurks and it is a man who is grief stricken and furious. 

Aragorn follows Boromir’s thoughtful gaze to the king. He half expects the ranger to speak, to say that Théoden is strong and will mend, one of those pretty sentiments. But he doesn’t. Instead, he remains silent and contemplative. 


	16. Of Death and Life in Rivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day of Grima son of Galmod

The second time Gríma visited Orthanc to discuss terms on the behalf of Théoden, Saruman had said, _ I don’t see his concern. I am not interested in temporal power. I am interested in bigger concerns. The world as a grand unit. _

Gríma had replied,  _ I think I understand.  _

And Saruman had said,  _ Of course you do. I can tell you’re one of those clever people who see more than what is around them. If anyone in Rohan could understand what I’m getting at, it would be you.  _

  
  
‘How the mighty have fallen,’ Kertug says in a somewhat airy tone. 

Gríma doesn’t reply. He hugs himself. This is what it is to be a caged animal. He and Éowyn both got that wrong. Any life lived in Edoras, no matter how restrictive, is an absolute freedom in comparison. 

Vermin. That’s on the lower end of what he has been called. Snake is the most common, since childhood. Mongrel and cur also show up, but more usually in the context of the deemed untrustworthiness of his mother’s people. If he has their blood in him, and they by definition are thieves, brigands and whatever else, then he by default must be the same. 

Worm. He makes a face. He’s always hated that one the most. Wyrm is fine. Wyrms are strange, sly, dragonish creatures that ask you riddles and make merry havoc with your intestines if you riddle wrong. Wyrm in Westron should be dragon, or dragon-creature-residing-in-mountain-streams-who-does-not-breath-fire-but-asks-many-riddles, to be exact. It is not  _ worm _ . 

What is it with wizards and worms?  _ A witless worm you have become, _ Gandalf said once. He can’t remember when. Was it two days ago? Six months ago? 

Sometimes he worries he’s going mad, with all the things he can’t remember. He will try and recall parts of his childhood and it’s blank. Bits and bobs, flotsam and jetsam. But there are things Brynja remembers that he can’t. 

And even now, what happened, for example, last September? Gandalf was making mischief, but that’s all he recalls. He supposes he must have visited Saruman to report on Gandalf’s activities. But much of that month is an empty field. A wide, open empty field. Sometimes there’s rain. Isn’t that a form of madness? 

Oh, he supposes, Éomer mucked around and asked him about fear; they discussed the nature of drowning. He is pretty certain that was last September. Surely it was.

‘He’s like this, you know,’ Kertug says, jarring Gríma from his thoughts. They round a corner. It is a long descent from Saruman’s office to the ground floor, then even longer to the rooms below ground. At the end of the hall are two doors. One leads to another set of stairs underground, the second leads out to a small courtyard where the Dunlanders have set up their camp. 

Kertug continues: ‘He calls me all sorts of things then two days later I’m back in favour. Give it time, he’ll come around.’ 

‘Joy,’ Gríma whispers. 

‘When you’re in Sharky’s good graces I’m sure it is.’ 

Gríma has seen the rooms. He knows how miserable they are, though they are a sight better than the cells. More importantly, he knows that when people go into the darkness of Orthanc’s underground they do not come back up. And if he did re-emerge, does he want to spend the remainder of his days being fed on the floor like a beast? But, he is not a very nice man. He has not lived a very good or kind life; perhaps he ought to stay. Evil resting with evil. 

Is he evil? He’s never much thought about it. Opining about morality and ethics he’s left to other people. Well, if one weighs evilness by actions taken for or against one’s home, he must surely be an evil man.

So, he ought to stay. When one makes a bed one best learn to rest in it. Besides, who would miss him? 

Brynja, he supposes. Her husband, in his own quiet way. Their children. But no one else. He hopes, should Brynja come asking years from now, someone tells her a pretty lie. For her sake. 

And if he left? If he made the choice to run, yet again. To oath break, yet again. (Not that Saruman made him swear an oath. So no forswearing this time, only running. Only not keeping his hand to the plough. Only beginning a furrow and not finishing it, like the feckless creature he is.) 

Should he flee, who would receive him? Where would he run to? 

Perhaps Lord Boromir’s offer is still on the table. What a wild thought. He laughs out loud at the impossibility of it. As if Lord Boromir would look at him now, look at him come crawling back a hound with tale between legs, and say:  _ yes, the offer still stands.  _ More laughter. Kertug looks at him with pity and concern. Her eyes are wells, how he imagines pools of water must be in Moria. 

And  Háma’s out-held hand? A frantic giggle. He spat at Háma. He looked at Háma’s kind, round face and spat at it. Because they had ruined everything. They being the King’s household. All his carefully laid plans, his attempts at securing some kind of safety, security, and comfort, not to mention getting what was owed him for all those years of thankless work, dashed to pieces. 

And yes, part of him remains angry at them for ruining all of that. For being the cause of his current descent into the bowels of Orthanc. For inviting Gandalf in, for listening to him, for never listening to Gríma, for calling him what he is, a traitor, then daring to offer grace. He sneers. He would never have done the same had he been in their boots so how dare they do it to him. How dare they act as if they’re better than him. 

So, if he chose to run back to Éomarc, and if neither offer remained, then his weregild would be what it would be. What would Théoden ask of him? Probably his head. Which is fair, all things considered. Treason is one of those crimes it is difficult to walk back from. 

But, it would be Théoden who takes his life. Not Saruman. And that is important. He doesn’t know why, only that it is.

Could he flee elsewhere? Laketown? Dale? Somewhere far north, out east — out to the sea of Rhûn, where his mother’s people are from. He supposes he could. His great aunt Ethelinda is out there. She’s mad, he’s heard, but as he also isn’t doing stellar on that front perhaps they could be mad together. At the same time, he cannot fathom it. He cannot imagine not being in and of Éothéod. He cannot imagine choosing another place to live. Therefore, he cannot imagine choosing another place to die. Even in his plans with Saruman, he was never to leave this land. For, what is the world if it is not the silver green of the ocean made of grass? 

At the juncture of the two doors Gríma halts as Kertug reaches for the one that leads underground. Gríma looks at her and the door that leads to such darkness. Then he looks at the door to the courtyard. He is a coward, he knows. But he decides he would rather be a coward in Éothéod than a coward in Orthanc. He knows how cowards are treated in Éothéod. Orthanc is an unknown, and an increasingly dire one. 

Without a word he slams Kertug back against the wall with all his strength. The orc’s head cracks on rock. Gríma watches her slide to the ground. In a mad flurry he manages to undo the sword, belt and scabbard and puts them on. His own belt he tosses aside. Then, with effort, he maneuvers Kertug and rolls her down the stairs to disappear into shadows. 

Thank the gods for the hardness of walls. 

Yanking courtyard door open he affects an air of distracted, entitled urgency and prays the Dunlanders don’t care enough to ask questions or get involved.

‘I need a horse,’ he snaps at one. ‘Come now, it’s important business and the longer I’m kept waiting the longer Saruman is kept waiting and I shan’t take the entire blame for that.’ 

The men and women glance at each other then shrug. One points towards an adhoc structure that evidently serves as a stable. Gríma stalks over, heart so high in his throat he could reach into his mouth and pluck it out. 

Finding several horses stabled he grabs bridle and reigns hanging by the stall of the fastest looking of the steeds. Saddle pad, saddle, breastplate. Dunlanders, like Éothéod of old, do not ride with stirrups.  _ Gods,  _ Gríma groans to himself, he hasn’t done that since childhood.

Spying a cloak and spare tunic hanging over the edge of an empty stall Gríma quickly sheds his own surcoat and outer tunic, his linen shift remains. On his shoulder sat a brooch bearing the sigil of Eorl, signifying him as a member of the King’s household. He fingers it for a moment before unpinning it and tucking it away. The old clothes are buried in straw. Pulling the new tunic over himself he belts it off. It fits loosely and he finds that buttoning the sleeves at his wrist does little for his hands have always been slender boned. The stitchwork of his shift cuffs shows through, the two toned birds along wrist and collar. It clashes in iconography with the bears embroidered on the outer tunic edge. His birds are blue and purple, the bears are red and green.

Looking down he finds something like blood marring the russet wool. Of Dunlander make, it is finely woven in their own style. It also smells of old sweat and grease, but he’d rather that than his former clothes. This set may be ill fitting, but they rest easier on his shoulders than all the fine furs and wools and brocade of what he once wore. What a strange relief, to wear another person’s clothes. A sense of newness he does not wish to inspect because why bother when you are going off to your own execution. 

The cloak, donkey grey, lacks a brooch or pin to keep it in place, but he finds it can be tied off so makes do. It hangs awkwardly, pressing against his throat in an uncomfortable manner but there is no time for perfection. A scrap of fabric ripped from his old outer-tunic serves as a means to tie his hair back and out of his face. The clasp and string he always wore have been lost somewhere in Orthanc. He doesn’t think he wants them, either. Leave all of that behind. Set it on fire. 

Pulling up the hood, he leads out the horse (Stigr he’s named it) along a narrow path between pits and smiths and tanneries. Passing by one he sees a horse hide stretched out. He shakily pets Stigr’s nose. Reminds himself that there are many horses in Saruman’s service. That could be any of them. 

Coming to the main road out of Isengard, Gríma mounts and falls in with a group of Dunlanders who are leaving ahead of the last contingent of Saruman’s army. No one pays him much mind and he is thankful, for once, for his unnoticeable form. After they pass through the gates, sloppily manned by several orcs he recognizes as Kertug’s fellow people from Moria, he trots along for a moment, going slower than the main body, before turning aside, into the grasses, and disappearing into night. 

Théoden to a young Gríma who is in his third year of service to the king,  _ I believe that if a king orders a death it is his duty to fulfill it.  _

Gríma to Théoden,  _ I don’t think I’d be able to do that. Isn’t that what money is for? You can pay a man to do it for you. Keeps your hands clean.  _

_ Monarchs never have clean hands.  _ Then, Théoden smiled warmly,  _ We each of us are made for our roles. That is part of growing up, I think. Coming to understand  _ _ how eminently suitable the field is for the wildflowers and the wildflowers for the field. _

Gríma, confused, said nothing in response. Théoden, with some tenderness,  _ This world would be filled with greater joy if we remembered that we are not able to be all things to all people. _

And Théoden’s tenderness, like Éomer’s truths, was something Gríma did not know how to hold. He blames it on the ill fitting parts that compose his body. That make him a mean and hungry thing. He told this to Brynja once:  _ If you cut open my stomach the meanness would come out, dark and meaty. And you could stomp on it, to drive it away, but I’d already be dead. _ And Brynja had cried. And he had stood there and watched her and felt bad that he had done this and, at the same time, wanted to hurt her because she was being nice and noble and kind to him. 

Théoden once said, a few cups into the spiced cider at midwinter,  _ My grandfather never knew what to do with people who were not mean or cold. His mother weaned him on curdled milk full of absence. He believed being hurt a form of safety and comfort and so hurting others is how he demonstrated love.  _

Gríma had thought:  _ How can you speak such things? lay me out like a bird with desiccated lungs shown to sky.  _ Had wanted to say: _ I am fine. How dare you say I am hurting when I am not.  _ Instead, he had replied with something witty and calculated. As was his habit. And Théoden had looked at him and had smiled and it had been sad and Gríma had loved and hated his king for it. 

Gríma thinks the front of the army must have a two day start on him so he will catch them up and be able, Gods’ willing, to arrive a day or two ahead of them. Most like a day, considering he is cutting across rough country. But, ten thousand orcs take a long time to march anywhere, let alone several hundred leagues into hilly terrain of mountain keeps. Road or no road, it will be slow going for them. 

Where to ford the River Isen is the question that occupies his mind as he edges slowly southward, keeping to the tall grasses so as to avoid detection. With the clear, bright moon he can see the Dunlanders silhouetted on the road. Their shadows dark against the horizon. He urges Stigr on as fast as he dare at night, off road, with unknowable obstacles beneath hoof. 

The actual Fords he assumes to be well guarded - either by Saruman’s men or Théoden’s and he has little interest in being detected by either at this moment. But, if he must choose, he’d rather it be Théoden’s so best to cross the river sooner rather than later. 

Which means going into water that could sweep him away. He pets Stigr’s neck but makes the horse no promises. If he makes no oaths to Stigr then maybe Stigr won’t die. 

He can hear the Isen before he sees the dark line of trees that drape themselves along the edge of the river. The sun is beginning to break upon the horizon, softly with much grey and some silver and bits of gold and red. Dismounting Gríma leads Stigr along the embankment, looking down to the swirling, cold depth. 

In the distance a thrush sings its morning song. Silken, it sinks into the world and brings some beauty to surroundings Gríma can only think of as bleak. Stigr bobs his head, nudges nose against Gríma’s shoulder. 

‘Yes, yes, I’ll find a better spot,’ he mutters. 

The Isen and the Limlight share the same birth-waters up in the cold peaks of the Misty Mountains. By Fangorn they diverge with Isen plummeting south and the Limlight stretching eastward, eventually meeting the Anduin. So, if he is to go into the Isen it is, in a sense, going into the Limlight. 

Only, the Isen is faster and deeper. The Limlight, though, is colder. 

A half mile along the bank, Gríma finds a slope where he can carefully edge his way down to the water with Stigir following. 

The water at this juncture looks deep but still passable. A little below chest height, he reckons. So, dangerous, but all fording opportunities that aren’t the Fords are dangerous. 

Below foot the earth is soft, crumbling. Roots jut out from the bank, clear evidence of floods that have ripped their way through the land. Gríma holds onto one as he slowly edges downward. 

Then, his foot goes out from under him. He falls with a curse, slides down clay, rock and dirt then the world drops out from beneath him. 

He hits water.

Which is cold and he’s panicking he’s hitting rocks and he’s screaming and his chest aches and he thinks that this is going to be how he dies. A bloated corpse washed up wearing clothes that aren’t his, bearing no sign of identity, buried in a potter’s field. Provided he is afforded burial and not lost in the waters to be devoured by animals therein. 

Éomer once said,  _ You don’t drown by falling in water, you drown by staying there.  _ They had been discussing open expanses of nothingness that is the ocean. 

Last September. 

No, it was further back. Last midsummer jól. Or two midwinter jól’s ago. 

What matters is that seasons have passed since that conversation. It ended with Éomer walking out through Meduseld doors and Gríma was left in the dim light of the hall hugging papers to his chest. 

Terrifying, how he misses all of that now. 

Now that he’s dying in a river. 

The last thing he said to Brynja was,  _ Don’t patronize me, sister-mine, I don’t need your worry or your care.  _ And Brynja had replied,  _ Fine, live as you see fit, brother. Far be it for me to try and help when I can see you are miserable. _ She had been angry at him and he at her. She had said,  _ I want you to be happy.  _ He had asked,  _ Why? _ And she had said,  _ Because you’re my brother and I love you, you stupid man. _ And he had said,  _ So I’m stupid as well as stubborn, is it no wonder that I avoid you all.  _ And she had said,  _ For the love of the gods, that isn’t what I meant -- _

His lungs hurt. 

He thinks he sees Baldir in the water beside him. But Baldir is dead. Baldir said,  _ When I get back, I’m going to make sure you learn how to fight properly. We could be called up together  _ then he went and died with an orc blade in his stomach. Slit right open. Made him into an offering to the gods of the battlefield. The landwights that look over the dead. 

He decides he’s dead. Because Baldir is here and so is Gálmód, now, who is also dead. Gríma thinks his father being here, in this watery grave with him, makes sense. After all, Gálmód died a watery, pneumatic death. Died telling Owensel to look after everyone. That he was the hope for the family future, now.

Gríma’s fairly certain he’s held his breath for more than two minutes. Does he get an award? 

He wonders if the collection of quilting squares still sits by the fire. His mother is too old, but Owensel’s wife might have found them and used them for one of their children. Or maybe she tossed them out and started fresh. 

Dream water and walls of stone of trees of dead bones of dead family dead fish and turtles and birds he floats thinks there’s a joke in this somewhere and only Brynja would laugh because Brynja has the same gallows humour as him thinks he wants to play backgammon wonders what happened to his mother’s pretty board probably stolen probably taken away by light fingers with no appreciation for Skoltse craftsmanship there is an inscription on the inside from his mad great-aunt to his mother  _ my C, may you always travel lightly, your dear aunt E _ he really truly believes he is dead now because there is an old man sitting on his chest wearing all white a wight squeezes his lungs a wraith pulls him off a horse slithers its voice through his body demands answers about grey wizards and white wizards and blue wizards (when did the gods die and leave wizards in charge) and rings and he had asked  _ what, rings that kings make gifts of _ and the wraiths had said  _ sort of _ and he had said  _ I don’t know about rings  _ and they said what  _ do you know about riddles and old golds _ but maybe that was a dream it doesn’t matter anyway because he’s dead now he didn’t think death would be hurting his chest so much or his shoulders and knees and arms and legs and the side of his face and muscle cramps happening in death is rude why can death not take cramps away but anyway he’s dead now so maybe he can will them away does the will exist in death does identity does anything clearly something does for he remains aware of physical sensations those poor fuckers in Gondor burning up their dead like firewood clearly ruining any chance of them passing to the next life for if he is dead evidently his body’s existence is integral to his deadness or rather his post-life deadness everything is very cold and blurry he doesn’t think he can think --- 

He breathes in. 

The thrush still sings. Maybe it’s a new thrush. Slowly, slowly, carefully, carefully, Gríma begins to feel again. The sand beneath hands. Rock against cheek. Bruises forming from the battering of the river. Wind rustling hair. Water laps at his boots, he can feel the soft movement. 

Bloodred, a cry of another bird. Gríma snaps eyes open. He is face first on land. Staring forward there is a set of hooves before him. The thrush is silent. Maybe it’s gone away, he thinks. Maybe it’s hidden itself from the hawk hunting on the high winds of Éomarc. 

The hooves remain present. He wonders if it's Sæwine. Perhaps it was all a dream. A waterborne nightmare. 

Or, he truly is dead. He’s probably dead. Perhaps you wash up on shores before going to the halls. He is glad Sæwine is here, regardless. 

Managing to lever himself up, sand covered, he turns to look properly at the horse and finds Stigr’s blue dun coat, his nose with its irregular blaze, the white boot on the back left foot. Sæwine was chestnut with a single stocking on the front right leg. Gríma always liked his stocking. 

Maybe Stigr died in the river, too. Maybe they’re both dead. 

Rolling over he looks up to the sky and finds that it is still morning, though much brighter. The sun has made work on its steady pilgrimage across the heavens. Stigr grunts and noses Gríma’s hair which has lost the makeshift tie so lies about him a wet, black crown. 

‘Well,’ he says to Stigr. ‘At least we crossed the river.’ The horse huffs. ‘I didn’t mean for it to go quite like that. Do you know if we crossed it in all ways? That is, are we dead?’

The horse looks at him with his pretty, brown eyes. Gríma continues, ‘If we’re dead I’m in for a walloping from my relatives.’ He thinks about the possibility of being alive and wants to be sick. He declares: ‘We’re dead. I’ve decided that we’re dead.’

Far down river, a horn lets out a silver peel. Éothéod. Someone from the Westmarc, if he remembers his war calls correctly. 

Maybe they’re ghosts. It would make sense that he wouldn’t pass into the halls of his forefathers. Gálmód would be at the door with a stick to beat him away. Only respectable members of the family are allowed.  _ Which makes for slim pickings,  _ Gríma sneers. 

Standing, shakily, he hauls himself onto Stigr, wincing as he goes. He’s fairly certain every inch of him is bruised. Even bits he never thought could bruise. Like spleens and livers. 

Aiming them south, Gríma steadily directs them towards the White Mountains. If he’s a ghost he might as well go and haunt Helm’s Deep for a while. Move things around in Éomer’s room to annoy him. Poke and prod the third marshal when no one is there. Creepily open doors. Tip stools out from beneath Gundahar. Spill Háma’s ale. Pester Gandalf. Whistle through hallways. All the things ghosts do.

‘Ominous messages,’ he says to Stigr. ‘I will leave ominous messages. Éomer will be able to read them. Cryptic riddles to scare everyone.’ 

There are three ways into Helm’s Deep, since apparently his ghostly ability to move swiftly over vast distances hasn’t arrived yet. The first option is via the green coomb and main gates, but he doesn’t fancy being seen yet. The second is the back way through the White Mountains that functions, essentially, as both back door and escape route. The third, though, is one very few know about. 

Gríma only does because Théodred mentioned it once. Years ago, a passing conversation,  _ How did you get into Helm’s Deep so quickly, my lord? We didn’t expect you until three days from now.  _

_ Oh, I took a side way in through the hills. A little trick I learned. There’s a secret sign you must look for. Some say it’s cursed.  _ A roll of eyes.  _ But it’s mostly just forlorn.  _

_ How is it cursed?  _

Théodred grinned.  _ The dead haunt it, apparently.  _

_ How unoriginal, _ Gríma replied tartly.  _ We already have a mountain pass haunted by the dead. Find a new curse.  _

The entrance is marked by a series of discreet carvings up the side of a rock wall. It’s slender, this opening to the mountain path. Hard to see unless you know what you’re looking for. It takes Gríma a good two hours to locate it. By a dead tree, one that has cleaved itself to mountain rock, Gríma spies old, elvish runes. The smell that emanates is of stagnant water and moldering trees and grey-yellow fungi that clings to fallen branches.

Nudging Stigr forward, he squints into twilight of a mountain pass that does not experience sun. He thinks he spies someone ahead, hiding amongst rock and hollowed husks of trees. A faceless man with a crown of antlers with an outstretched hand that looks as if it is made of bark or rootwork. 

He still wonders if that was a god. If it was, it looked nothing like what he imagined a god to look like. And he had asked, when he was a boy, inside that strange cave where everything smelt of molded herbs,  _ But are you Béma?  _

And the god, or spirit, or creature, whatever it was, whatever it is, replied:  _ My name is older than it needs to be.  _

A breeze gusts over him, the same smell as that cave. Do all caves interconnect? Do all mountains of the world reach their tendrils down beneath earth to make one tangled root of each other? When he was in that cave in Fangorn, the one the altar to Béma fronts, was he also here in this mountain pass? Was he also beneath Helm’s Deep? The caverns of Orthanc? The catacombs of Osgiliath that are filled with many bones? 

A hum, a laugh, echoes above and in front of him. Leading him onward, deeper and deeper into the White Mountains. Which is convenient, since he was nowhere else to go. His calculating mind is coming up with a story of repentance that he hopes will make Théoden feel sorry for him. His present, animal mind that is focused on survival thinks: _ I know that hum. I know that laugh. They are familiar how childhood things are familiar.  _

Perhaps it’s Théodred. Come to ask why Éomer sits at his spot at the table and bears his title of heir. Come to ask why Gríma is still alive. Why there hasn’t been justice for the dead when that is what they require in order to rest. 

Except, Théodred is not a familiar childhood thing. 

And anyway, can ghosts haunt other ghosts? Do wraiths prey on one another? He whistles a slow tune, one he learned as a boy, it’s a lullaby that conjures up wolves who will hunt and eat the evil spirits of the night that ever seek to devour you whole. 

Some ghosts and wraiths and wights are made of the dead. Others are made of fire and wind. Others from fox and bird spirits. Still others are made from the roots of the earth, the streams that slice through rock. 

‘Well,’ he says. ‘I suppose I can hold my breath for more than two minutes. I suppose that’s something.’


	17. Of Rings, Swords and Names

Faramir always told him: start small, build up. This is when Boromir is trying to explain something. Trying to describe a truth like an object, a creature, a natural phenomena. And people? They contain truths that are their own, that may not be the truths of others. That is, at least, Faramir’s proposition.

Boromir always said, _No, there are truths of people that we can all agree on. If everyone has a disparate truth of a situation or a person the world would not hold._

Faramir replied, _No, we all are made of different truths that we may think are self evident but aren’t, actually. As for situations and events? We see them all differently, even if we’re stood side by side watching it happen at the same moment. But we agree to agree on certain aspects and declare these aspects to be the whole truth because we want the world to hold._

A dodgy answer, Boromir always thought. But he never pressed it because Faramir was better at these sorts of thought experiments than him. Would talk right over Boromir and would weave himself into the most complicated knot and then untangle it in the next breath. 

How did Faramir do that? He worked in small bites. 

The ground has defrosted and soil of fields turned, spring flowers bloom. This is the land they ride through. Some areas are burnt by orcs or wild men. Some areas have seen something of a skirmish, a melee, an exchange of unpleasantries via sword. The grass in these parts is flattened, tilled soil disturbed. But no more than that. Battlefields are never what the uninitiated expect. They are less dramatic, more orderly. 

Men die in lines or squares. You can follow the flow of a battle by where and how men fall. The field itself - give it a week - and you won’t be able to tell anything happened at all. The farmer ploughs or sows it; the shepherd pastures his sheep; a lord hunts game through tall grass. 

Small truths: wildflowers are in bloom. There have been some small confrontations. Land does not scar how human flesh scars. 

Then you go bigger. Talk trees, rocks, rivers, in this case: mountains. The white ones, a north reaching branch of them. 

Gimli said: _I’ve always thought it funny how humans and elves refer to mountains as if they are trees. Your love of the above sinks into your understanding of the below._

Boromir asked, _What do dwarves use as a metaphor then? Or is it imagery?_

_The body, of course. Limbs, organs, bones, marrow, flesh, blood. Elves do something similar with trees, apparently._

So, the northern arm of the White Mountains whose hair flows out as peaks, valleys, gorges, cliffs, rockface. The skin is pockmarked with snow at the highest reaches, pines the lower you go, some areas yet are bald faced. 

Helm’s Deep is located in a deep partition of red-black rock that is sheer, steep, and crow-lined.

‘Made from the river,’ Gimli says. He’s decided to ride with Boromir as they enter the green coomb that will eventually become a bay before narrowing into a thin mountain pass. Beside them is the Deeping Stream which is small and cold. The bay is large, he knows, and semi-circular with the stream cutting it in half.

‘Not riding with Legolas today?’ Boromir asks. 

Gimli shrugs. ‘We’re not cleaved to each other.’ 

‘I know, but that has been the norm.’ 

‘Wanted a change of pace.’ 

Boromir thinks to prod but cannot for Gimli quickly says, ‘How do you think your Horselord friend is taking his future kingship? Better watch out, they’ll start calling you a king-maker next and I’ve always found that to be an ambiguous title.’ 

‘Too much king-slayer in there. Though I think Saruman’s the king-slayer in this case, therefore, also a king-maker. I doubt Éomer is what he intended.’ 

‘What about that little, dark haired one?’ 

‘I hardly think so,’ Boromir snorts. ‘I can’t imagine him on a throne.’ 

Gimli laughs a no, no, me neither. ‘Though, he seemed comfortable enough with the idea of power. But I suppose we all want power of one kind or another.’ 

‘Not all,’ Boromir eyes the back of Aragorn’s head. 

Gimli shakes his head, ‘Oh no, even he does. Control, the ability to control one’s life and the situation one ends up in. That’s a form of power, albeit a small one.’ 

‘And you, Master Dwarf?’ 

‘There’s a power or two I’d like to have. But it’s best I don’t, I’d mean well but it’d go down hill fairly swiftly.’ 

Boromir grins. He can’t imagine what that power would be. Gimli is the son of kings. Perhaps it’s kingship itself, but he knows Thorin’s story too well to truly wish for it. ‘As for Éomer, fuck if I know. He didn’t confide that to me, besides general discomfit at taking his cousin’s place. Anyway, there was a lot happening all at once, I suspect he hadn’t thought about it in too much detail.’

‘Well, Théoden seems strong enough, there will be time yet to reconcile his new inheritance.’ 

‘Aragorn disappeared into the wilderness when he was told.’ 

Gimli’s laughter partially echoes off rock walls that tower and diminish the sunlight. Disturbs a crow whose mournful caw resonates within the joy. 

‘Gods, of course he did. Is he reconciled?’ 

Boromir looks ahead towards Aragorn who has done his contemplative disappearance into himself, which happens when he is thinking over something. Catches of an Elven lay half-sung, more chanted, drift over. 

‘I sure hope so,’ Boromir mutters. ‘We’re getting a little too close for him to back out.’ 

Gimli does not answer but Boromir can feel the dwarf’s deep breath and out. 

The entire scene is the last thing to explain. The crow’s eye view of it all. A demonstration of how each part is integral to the whole. And no part is ever too small not to be integral - even if you don’t necessarily understand how it fits in. 

Helm’s Deep spills out and across the bay of golden grass. First, the coomb descends into the bay and all riders enter by the Deeping Road that runs alongside the unimpressive stream.

(‘This paltry thing made these cliffs and narrows and everything?’ 

‘Never underestimate persistent drops of water.’) 

Then, the dyke. It forms a wide, half-circle from end of the bay to the other. A steep ditch with pikes at the bottom, it forms the first line of defence. On the inside of the dyke is a stone wall, in partial repair, from which the Rohirric can shoot arrows, hurl rocks, spears, and other projectile-oriented delights at the enemy. 

The centre of the dyke between dyke wall and the fortress is open field and the Deeping Road begins to rise up from the flat, forming a causeway up to the outer walls of the Hornburg which sits atop a rock outcropping from the granite cliffs. The Deeping Wall, an impressive structure that has seen better days, runs from the fortress at one end of the bay, across to the far wall where it ends in a tower nestled against rockface. 

The causeway runs over the stream which bisects the earthware of the dyke and makes a small approximation of a moat around the rock upon which sits the Hornburg. It then dips under the Deeping Wall and takes itself off into the narrow pass of the mountains. 

The fortress itself is in the classic ringed style made up of an outer and inner wall. So, to get to the people hiding within, you must first overcome the dyke, the wall above the dyke, the Deeping Wall, then the outer Hornburg wall and the inner Hornburg wall. 

Which is to say, good luck. 

As the cliffs are sheer and disallow much light, it is cool. A keen mountain air, humid, cold and refreshing. 

It reminds Boromir of home. 

Which leads him to a question that had begun to nag him when they left Emyn Muil and entered Rohan and has only grown stronger as days gathered: When does he leave? 

In truth, he ought to have started home a week ago. He went north to answer a riddle. His father may have said: _Take what time is needed._ But that didn’t actually mean: Take what time is needed. That meant: Take time to get it right, but then come home directly because you are needed here. 

How long, then, until he leaves? How long before he exits the siege via the rear-gate and wind his way through mountainous path home? How long does one have to stay in order to be able to say they have kept their word? He stands by words and promises and the gods will die a thousand deaths before he will be thought faithless by these people; but the gods will die a million deaths before he’ll be thought faithless by his own. 

Sometimes, he dreams of Minas Tirith, Pelargir, Osgiliath - the jewel of Gondor, his brother, his father, even his mother though she soon turns to marble, as is ever the way in his dreams. Marble and the scent of bitter oranges. 

He misses his bedroom, he misses the view, the bottom drawer of his armoire that squeaks no matter how much powder is used to ease the wood; but it’s his grandfather’s so he plans to never be rid of it. He misses council meetings. He winces. It’s dire if he misses those. 

This siege could last months and he knows he cannot stay the entirety of it for that would not be fair to his people. He will not abandon them, forsake them, when they most need him. When his father will most want him back, when Faramir will most want him back. 

The entire picture of the siege stares at him. The entire picture of the war stares at him. It’s a painting in his mind: each person is where they ought to be, save him and Aragorn. They are in the wrong spot.

‘My father was a breaker of trust,’ Théoden says. He has called Boromir in for council, a private one. Then he looked at Aragorn and said, _You should probably be present as well. All things considered._ Now, the king pauses over his intentions and lingers in memories. ‘He was small, as a boy. A poor, thin thing. When I buried my mother he was not there to see her go into the sacred ground.’ 

‘I remember him as a strong man,’ Aragorn replies in the space of silence Théoden leaves in the middle of the room. ‘But I did not know him well.’ 

‘He grew to be strong, yes. He was strong for his people. In his own way. Strong and silent.’ What a wry, perhaps almost cruel, smile. ‘His own father was an angry man. Full of demons, most of whom were self-made. He had a fire in him, Fengel, and there was no place for him to let it out so it ate him, and everyone around him, alive.’ 

They are in the rooms Cynric has cleared out for the king. Erkenbrand’s things have shifted into a second set, nearby and still befitting of his rank as unofficial Marshal of the Westmarc. Both sets - his and the king’s - are the finest in this castle that is a fortress. The Hornburg is both, therefore neither. It sits at the edge of the two ideas just as it sits at the edge of a rock that sits at the edge of a cliff. 

A large fire quickly warms stone, and fresh straw and herbs have been strewn over the floor. The air perfumed with myrrh clears out stale air and the unmistakable scent of wet dog, though several large war hounds slumber in a corner. The fire also clears out shadows that gather in rooms that have been disused for too long. Erkenbrand has been in the field with his men for months, now. He has not been home since January. 

Théoden rubs a hand over his face, motions for the boy at the sideboard to pour them wine. Sinking into a chair that heads the unofficial war council table, the king watches with careful eye as the cups are refilled. 

‘Thank you, my boy, you may retire. See if Grimbold can put you to use.’ The boy bows and withdraws. Théoden takes a long sip of wine before standing again. He circles around to lean, with arms on the back of the chair, facing Boromir and Aragorn. Grim resolve slides off Théoden’s shoulders. He says, ‘There’s a difficult conversation ahead of us. I’ve been giving it much thought. Since we left Edoras, even. Though it was not so crystalline at the time.’ 

Boromir suspects he can guess what is about to come up. A sticky conversation _indeed._ These are difficult and trying times, Oaths made hundreds of years ago suddenly seem unimportant when today’s enemy is banging at the gate to barter. 

He cannot fault Théoden for raising the issue. He still wishes the man had waited for a few days. Let them get into the flow of the siege and see what Saruman is all about before launching into the talk of will I/won’t I answer Gondor’s latest call. 

‘I’ve had word sent from Thane Deorwine who holds a hidage in the north east of the Wold. They’ve had several skirmishes with Sauron’s forces on the border lands. He’s called up a levy of local men and says that he’s sent a good few south to the Eastemnet where they are also being pressed by the enemy.’ 

‘These are dark times for us all,’ Boromir carefully replies. 

Meeting Aragorn’s bland expression he wonders what the other is thinking. Aragorn’s view on oaths is difficult to parse. He seems averse to them one moment, yet at the same time is content to make pledges and vows with great speed and dedication. 

But, vows and pledges are not oaths. Their power and expectation are not equal.

‘I know your father will expect you to return with aid.’ Théoden glances at Aragorn then back to Boromir. ‘I know not what he had in mind when you went north. I recall Gríma saying something about a riddle, though I may have dreamt that conversation.’ 

‘I can’t speak to your adviser's telling or not telling of my visit, but I did go north seeking an answer to a riddle. He was courteous when I came to Edoras for rest and a new horse.’

‘I’ve no doubt he was. Frealaf, wasn’t it? Look,’ Théoden’s face turns from grim to frank. ‘We are about to settle in for a siege. Know that I hold our friendship with Gondor in high esteem but I cannot, at this time, promise anything.’ 

Boromir gives an understanding nod as he traces whorls in the table. He lets the silence linger for a time, in case Théoden has anything else to add. Finding the king resolute in his waiting for a response, Boromir says, ‘My father understands that you are hard pressed, that we are all hard pressed. Sauron’s forces were beginning to muster as far back as October and I am sure he’s only increased his efforts in that regard. And who knows what allies he’s sent for from other lands. _I,_ perhaps, did not expect to arrive with aid from Rohan, but it _is_ expected. My father will push for it. And the oath is very clear in the roles and expectations of our two countries.’ 

Théoden walks to the fire, presses a hand against the mantle and nudges a log with the toe of his boot. Unlike the longhouses and halls of the rest of Rohan, the Hornburg is modeled on Gondor’s architectural style. So, no long fire down the centre of the room, rather a large fireplace at the head. From it, shadows dance out and make a partial circle around them. 

‘Is it strange that I wish Gríma were here?’ Théoden asks the fire. 

Boromir and Aragorn exchange a glance. Aragorn motions with his hand, _you answer him._

‘I think it’s normal to miss someone, even if they’ve changed from the man you once knew. It’s a form of mourning, my brother would say. You’re mourning the loss of the person they had been.’

‘He’s my lawspeaker — was my lawspeaker. Have you ever attended a Witan?’ Théoden turns to rest his back against the wall. He holds his wine against his stomach. ‘No? To open the ceremony the laghmaþe, lawspeaker, stands on the lagurocc, law rock, and speaks out the current laws of the land. All hidages send representatives so any new law, or amendment to the old, can be relayed back. Anyway, it always opens with a recitation of the Oath. About which my former counselor has many views. Something to do with his mother’s people. He never went into great detail about the origins of his opinions.’ 

Boromir manages, only just, to keep his face carefully neutral. ‘He struck me as a well informed sort of man. I’m sure his opinions were worth the hearing.’ 

And oh, he is deathly curious but will not ask, cannot ask. It is not appropriate, as the (official) highest ranking nobleman from Gondor present, to ask what strong opinions a disgraced traitor has about the Oath that, quite literally, created Rohan. 

Théoden’s wry smile. ‘They were. For the most part. He had a few that were — what did Éomer call them? Ah, _spicy._ And I will say he had _many_ an opinion, though he kept most to himself. You could see it in his eyes for he never quite managed perfect facial neutrality. I could always tell when I was going to get an earful once council was over.’ A pause for a moment of memory. Then the king evidently pulls himself into the present. ‘Well, that is for another day. The important thing for us, for you, is that I don’t know if I can spare any men. This doesn’t mean I won’t be able to send aid in the future, but at the moment I’m undoing three years of hard work by one of the more diligent and clever men in my employ.’

Boromir sits back into his heels. He understands Théoden’s position. He would be having the same conversation were he in Théoden’s boots. Boromir finds Aragorn also visibly sympathetic. But, Aragorn is an overall sympathetic person, so that’s a hardly informative expression. 

[Boromir watches a rather impressive spider crawl over Sam’s pack as the halfling sleeps. After a moment he gets up, with a stick, and bats the creature away. But he does it too harshly so it skitters across the ground and ends up in the fire. Boromir shrugs. When he looks up he sees Aragorn making a terribly sad face at the fire. 

‘Unintentional,’ Boromir says as he seats himself. It is gone past noon and the sun is relentless. He cannot sleep for it. 

‘The poor lady. She was only living out her life as she best knew how.’

Boromir opens his mouth to reply, thinks better of it, and spends the remainder of the watch slowly breaking the offending stick into pieces and feeding them to the fire.] 

‘I understand,’ Boromir says. ‘But Rohan made an oath to Gondor and while I may not have it memorized word for word, Eorl pledged that Rohan would aid Gondor to the utmost of her strength and the oath would descend upon his heirs—’ 

‘Vow,’ Théoden corrects. 

‘Pardon?’ 

‘It’s vow. _This vow shall descend to my heirs, all such as may come after me in our new land, and let them keep it in faith unbroken, lest the Shadow fall upon them and they become accursed._ ’

‘It’s _Oath_ in the written version.’ 

‘Which is, naturally, the correct version. It was Cirion who brought oaths into the entire matter, not Eorl. Whether Cirion’s words hold weight, legally, is something that can be debated.’ 

Boromir goes to reply but bites it back. Begs himself to try and mirror Faramir in this moment. Aragorn is suddenly very interested in the middle of the table, the glassware, the jug of wine. 

Holding up his hands, Boromir says, ‘Peace. Let us see where things stand in a few day’s time. We’ll go nowhere but in circles if we try to resolve the issue now and I would have us all be friends.’ 

Théoden sips his wine then detaches himself from the wall and rejoins them at the table. He says that the Lord of Gondor is correct. They had best hold off any formal decisions for the moment. ‘The world changes so readily these days. Who knows, maybe this siege won’t last more than a week,’ says the man who clearly believes the opposite. 

Outside the king’s rooms, Boromir breathes a sigh of relief. ‘I always let my father and Faramir handle these conversations. Pull me in for trade treaties and defense maneuvers, but technicalities of the wording of oaths taken hundreds of years ago?’ He shakes his head. 

‘Not only a technicality, an entire disagreement on the exact wording,’ Aragorn hums. 

‘Gods, that. I didn’t know they thought of it as a vow rather than an oath.’ 

Striking up a meandering stroll, they make a slow way through rooms, ante chambers, and into the cool depths of the caves that the fortress empties into. Some of the small enclaves serve as storage for food, spare feed for horses and cattle that have been brought in for safety, tools, weapons. Banging echoes from one direction or another, somewhere there is a smith which means a way outside to the land protected by the Deeping Wall. 

But they are not interested in that, so take up a hall that seems more deserted than the others, and that appears to lead deeper into the caves. The light is dim, only a few torches on the walls. Their light glints off walls that clearly shine if lit well. 

‘I understand where he’s coming from,’ Aragorn says. ‘I would also be hesitant in dedicating men to defend another country when they’re needed at home.’ 

‘Oh, I agree. Were I him oaths to Gondor would be at the bottom of my list of priorities.’ A pause, Boromir adds, ‘Especially since he’s catching up on three years of absence. But, that said, they’re oath bound. Or vow bound. Regardless, there is an agreement to uphold.’ 

‘Oaths are such strong things to make, especially to pass them on to future generations, when one cannot see ahead. It places a cruel burden on them.’ 

‘Sworn words can strengthen a weak heart, or an already present bond. Oaths are not things to make lightly, that is true, but they are not wholly evil.’ 

‘Did I say evil? They are merely cruel when bestowed upon people who had no say in their making. To pledge unknown souls to walk paths that could be dark when you, yourself, have not seen nightfall?’ Aragorn shakes his head. ‘It’s not something I would do.’ 

Boromir purses lips, pauses to look at the walls of the caves. He can feel Aragorn’s anxiety grow as the silence continues. He chews on the inside of his cheek, marks the cautious glances cast in his direction. 

‘Stalagmite,’ Boromir says, pointing to a column jutting up from the ground. A golden brown flow descends off the column. Above it, a thin drapery of calcium. So thin, the flicker of torchlight can be seen through it. Water collects at the tip then drops to cave floor. 

Boromir watches a few droplets fall to hit stone. ‘When we speak of oaths between countries it is different to those made between individuals on a private level,’ he says quietly. ‘If Rohan were to break her oath there might be some tension, but I have no doubt our bond would be reestablished should peace come again. Gondor isn’t going to rip the land out from under their feet, which is theoretically what we could do. But, it is my job, and will be your job, to uphold Gondor’s interests even when you sympathise with the other side.’ 

‘I am aware,’ Aragorn snaps. It isn’t a cruel tone, but it is as close to cruel as Boromir has heard from him. It is swiftly followed by an apology.

‘It’s fine,’ Boromir shrugs. ‘I can lecture when it’s not needed, or warranted. You’re allowed to tell me to shut up.’ 

Aragorn pulls a face, mutters that he’d never do that. It would always be uncalled for. But perhaps that’s a more soldierly way of doing things? He vaguely remembers that, from his days riding with Théoden and others. Aragorn spends some time tracing a faded etching in the wall. A collection of runes, ancient and unknown. 

‘Long ago an oath was made, between a father and his sons, and it resulted in some of the worst massacres, battles, and murders I’ve ever heard of. Elrond and his parents were caught up in it, among others.’

‘Elrond’s dislike of oaths stems from this, I assume?’ 

‘Yes, but you’d have to ask him. It’s not my story to tell.’ 

‘He’s veritably your father.’ 

‘Foster father, yes.’ 

‘Very well,’ Boromir sighs. ‘Should I ever meet Lord Elrond again, I’ll take him to a tavern, get him drunk, then ask about his tragic past.’ The face Aragorn makes is a portrait. The laughter that follows sweeter than sun after rain. 

But the sweetness doesn’t rectify this feeling of uncertainty that has risen up in Boromir’s chest. The Oath of Eorl is the foundational agreement that codifies the entire relationship between Rohan and Gondor. It is not something to be taken lightly, nor dismissed. Not that Aragorn was doing either of these things, he knows. It's just, they're view points are a little at odds. Perhaps Aragorn will reconcile himself to the situation. Boromir will just convince Théoden they should rename it Agreement or Treaty so to avoid the word Oath. Not that that wouldn't cause an Incident or three. 

Which leads him to his next point and, since they’re all having a day of difficult conversations, Boromir figures he might as well launch himself off this metaphorical cliff. 

‘Speaking of wars and battles,’ Boromir begins after they’ve had a moment for thought. ‘I can’t stay here for more than a week. Two at the very most. If this is going to be a six month siege, which is the assumption Théoden and Cynric are working under, I can’t stay till the bitter end.’ 

Aragorn’s face closes in on itself. He toys with a rocky tip of a stalagmite. There is a loose chip that he moves forward and back. Boromir waits. His heart is in his throat and he doesn’t know why. He pushes it back down. Divorces himself from himself.

‘I have given my word that I would help,’ Aragorn says at length. ‘Which means until the very end.’ 

‘And if it goes poorly? If it becomes clear all is lost?’ 

‘If all are to die, then I will die as one of them.’ 

‘But you aren’t one of them,’ Boromir snaps. ‘You’re a man of Gondor. And gods help me, you are honourable to a fault, kind to a fault, good hearted to a fault, but you are also going to be king.’ 

‘Am I a man of Gondor? I was born in Rivendell. I was raised in the north. You are of Gondor. You are so clearly made of her rock, her trees, her mountains and earth and air and I adore that. It’s as it should be. But I’m not. I’m made of the north. If you were to autopsy me that is the material I am made of. I am a Dunedain first and foremost.’

‘Who are descendants of our kings. But I fail to see how this matters. You chose kingship which means you chose Gondor. This, therefore, makes you a man of Gondor. It’s the choice that matters.’ Boromir sucks a breath in, rests a hand against cave wall and drops his voice, aware how it carries in this cool, dark land. ‘If I chose to be a man of Rohan then I’d be a man of Rohan. If I chose to serve Théoden, I’d be Rohirric regardless of my birth.’ 

‘It’s more complicated than that.’ 

‘No, it’s not.’

Aragorn turns, walks a few feet down a darkened tunnel. From its depths a breeze carries the scent of pine and dirt. It occurs to Boromir that if there is a breeze then it must open to the outside. Which is strange, since he thought them opposite of where the Hornburg caves open to the field behind the Deeping Wall. From where they stand, the light of the torches cannot illuminate the darkness. 

Aragorn pauses, folds his arms into himself. Boromir cannot see his face but knows that posture and knows him to be biting his knuckles. He saw this on Caradhras, and after, in Moria, and after that in the Dale as everyone wept for Gandalf. 

‘You asked me a while back about my choice and if I still wished to be king.’ 

‘I did.’

‘I know you’re going to ask me it again.’ 

‘Not now, but I will. When I leave.’

Aragorn twists back around, his face carefully neutral. ‘And would you still think well of me if I didn’t? I think I’ve asked you that before, or something near enough, but much has changed.’ 

Boromir closes his eyes. Rocks back on his feet then grounds himself. He can feel the cool, slick wall beneath one hand. His other rests on sword pommel. He can see Minas Tirith in his mind’s eye. He can see Osgiliath burning. Smell the burning. Hear the burning. Sometimes he thinks he’s burning, too. Sometimes he thinks he’s drowning in the river, it was cold like this cave. He looks up from beneath water and sees the marble domes of the jeweled city wreathed in flame. It’s the same as how sometimes he thinks he smells something, hears something, and he is back in Amon Hen. And there is the ring. There is always the ring. It wants to be the answer to all his burdens. It will never leave him. It tells him that: _I will never leave_ you. He could wash himself a thousand times and never be rid of it. 

‘Well?’ Aragorn’s voice uncertain. ‘Are you going to say something?’ 

‘You asked me in Lorien if I wanted you to come with me to Gondor and I said I wanted you to do what you thought right.’ 

‘You’ve never really given me a straight answer about kingship—’ 

‘Because it is not my answer to give. I’ve told you that I think the arrival of the heir of Elendil would do Gondor good, a statement I stand by. I don’t know what more you want. What more I can say.’ 

‘Do _you_ want me to be king?’ 

‘I want you —’ Boromir sighs. Rubs hand over his face. ‘I want you, at the end of the day, to choose the plough you will use to finish the furrow of your life. It is no light matter, becoming king. I don’t blame you for your reticence. I would be, too. I think Éomer is having a mild apoplexy every ten minutes about his recent inheritance. If you cannot keep your hand to the plough, as king, then I would not have you be king, for all our sakes. Yours, mine and our peoples’.’ 

Aragorn opens his mouth. Boromir holds up a hand before he speaks, crosses over to the space where flickering light meets dark. Somewhere in the distance, there are hooves on stone. 

Boromir takes Aragorn’s hand, the one with Barahir, and rubs his thumb over the serpents, the emerald, the dented crown. The ring has seen many years. ‘You have the ring, the sword, and the name.’ 

Aragorn agrees with a small noise. He stares at Boromir with his through-you-to-your-soul stare. He whispers, ‘But I didn’t ask for the ring, the sword or the name.’ 

‘And I didn’t ask to be the son of the Steward. I didn’t ask to sit in a chair that is cold because the ghosts of dead kings loiter in the shadow cast by too large a throne. But my father is Denethor and I am heir to that position.’ A shaky breath. 'I have already decided that I support your claim to the throne. I’ve told you that more than once.’

‘I know,’ Aragorn murmurs. His head bowed, he is apparently inspecting Boromir’s hand as it holds his own. 

‘This means no one will contest it. If I say you are king, everyone in Gondor will believe. If I say you are a pretender, you will never sit on that throne.' Boromir stops, watches Aragorn’s quiet rumination of their hands. 'I don't mean to be cruel. But if I come to Gondor and say you are king, which I believe you to be, and I am happy to follow you, then you turn around and say you don't want this crown, this scepter or throne, it won't end well for me. Do you understand what I'm saying?' 

Aragorn raises his head, meets his eye and nods. He does, he says, he does understand. 'But the thought makes me nauseous.' 

'How so? What about kingship terrifies?' 

'The entirety of it. As you said, it’s no light matter. Setting aside the fact that my decisions will make or break thousands, tens of thousands of lives, the thought of being tethered to a position, a seat, a place, frightens me. It's like being locked in a small room and you can't get out. I’ve always been able to go where I will, help where I want to help, where I am needed. I’ve always weaved my own thread and the idea that this control will be taken from me, yet at the same time such incredible power is bestowed - of course I’m terrified. Of course it makes my heart and stomach clench.' 

'You would truly be that unhappy?' 

'I can't say. But it’s how I feel right now.’ 

Boromir closes his eyes. Punches his heart back down from where it had taken up nesting in his throat again. 

‘Your caution is good. Your awareness of the task before you, I’m always happy to see.’ Boromir swallows and feels himself become calmness. ‘I will not tell you what to do. But what I do know, is that all the legends say the right man for power is the one who does not want it, but that's not how the world works. Gondor deserves a king who is fully committed. Who is in the saddle and ready. You must decide if you are and if you are not, turn aside. There will be other heirs yet,' a humourless smile. 'Rings and swords and names have a habit of popping up every few thousand years.' 

'I feel like I can't turn aside, that I'm on this path sliding down and I can't stop.' 

'No one knows you're the heir. Well, some do. But no one in Gondor. There are no hopes raised. You could walk into the White City or Pelargir tomorrow and no one would know who you are. There is time to reconsider, not much, but not nothing. That said, know that when I leave it will be with you or without and I will view that decision as final.’

Aragorn is dismal. Boromir watches the shadowed wall, the shadowed ceiling. Despite the darkness, there are flashes of white catching in distant flames. Single flashes of light. A reminder of hope, in these uncertain times. 

Reaching forward, Boromir rests a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, thumb pressed against neck. The warm skin, the pulse jumping. 

'For what it’s worth,’ he says. ‘I think you’d make a good king. There’s much to learn, but you’d get there. And you wouldn’t be alone. You have friends —' 

'But I would be your king, at the end of the day,’ said with such sadness Boromir wants to punch the gods who decided this should be their fate. Can’t let them be happy because wf mouth, the taught shoulders that never relax. He remembers when he first saw Aragorn at the council meeting in Imladris — a lifetime ago — how Aragorn had tried to ignore all those looks when the riddle of his kingship was spoken. How he blushed when Bilbo came to his defense. How Boromir had understood that feeling of: _will everyone please stop coughing-with-meaning-while-looking-at-me-as-if-I'm-the-answer._ A _deeply_ relatable experience. 

But Aragorn is the answer. He has the great misfortune of being born to a ring and a sword and a name. 

Or, rather, Aragorn could be part of an answer. If he willed it. 

'I don't believe I'd think less of you for it,’ Boromir says. ‘But that decision, too, would change things. Either path you take. We’re in what my father would call a liminal space - I think that’s the right word.’

‘Gods, of course Denethor would call it that.’ 

‘Yes,’ said slowly. ‘We’re, uh, in a situation that is not permanent but something we’re moving through. If you are king, things will change. If you remain a ranger, things will change.' 

Aragorn agrees in his quiet way. Of course it would. Necessarily. Truly, he wouldn’t expect otherwise. Wouldn’t _want_ it to be otherwise. It’s just the nature of what that change would be, perhaps, lends an air of uncertainty. But, he is glad to hear Boromir wouldn't think less of him. Which makes Boromir's neck quite warm and he is suddenly aware that they are standing in a hide-away cave beneath a mountain fortress awaiting an inevitable battle. 

Fuck the present situation as much as the gods. He’s in one of those moods. He thinks he should tell Aragorn not to overthink so much. He thinks it'd be a bit shameful to say that: pot and kettle and all that. Reaching forward with his free arm, he pulls Aragorn into a hug. Lips pressing briefly to cheek, the rough beard, then he rests forehead on Aragorn’s shoulder. 

The world feels steady, now. Time slows, becomes a manageable concept. The hand that inspects Boromir's own, that keeps tracing the lines of his palm, bears the ring of Barahir. It is a rough hand, with calluses, dirty fingernails, scars. 

When Boromir was a boy he assumed the hands of a king would be elegant. Graceful. Dignified. Clean. Aragorn's hands have grace, but they are not elegant, they are not dignified, they are not clean. Metaphorically or literally. Which makes them infinitely better equipped for ruling than the fantasy nine-year-old Boromir concocted. 

Aragorn’s hands are healing ones, he thinks. Says to Aragorn’s shoulder and chest, ‘You have the hands of a king.’ He feels Aragorn’s surprise more than witnesses it and adds, ‘I think that says something.’ 

Down the tunnel that shoots off to Boromir’s left: horse hooves. Quite close. Boromir pulls back and he and Aragorn step apart to await the new arrival. 

Appearing as a slow inkspill cascading out of shadows, is Gríma Wormtongue. Sitting on a grey horse, wearing a bloodied, ill fitting tunic, hair tangled everywhere, and looking like he's been dragged through a mud pit, eyes wide in a frenetic sort of expression. 

Gríma stares at them. Seems to become aware of who they are and where he must be. He cracks a slight, one-sided smile that does nothing for the frenetic energy. It takes a few swallows before he manages to hoarsely say, ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Um. I’ve come to see the king?' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm them boys are dumb.


	18. Returned Traitors

The last words Gríma heard from his mother, before he and Brynja went south: _I want you to remember that we live and we err, sometimes seriously, but I hope we are not defined by that error. I hope, if we are lucky, and the gods are with us, we may change precisely because of that error so we are not consumed by that one action alone, but rather, we consume it and it becomes a part of the many strings that weave together who we are._

Which he assumed was an attempt at an apology for things she got wrong, or maybe it was an acceptance of his unspoken apology for the things he got wrong. Ceridwen never was one for words. She said they were cheap, it is actions that matter. They are the bones that make the world. 

Gríma follows Lord Boromir into the main hall of the Hornburg. The one with the central fire running long and flanked on either side by tables and benches. As with all things in Éomarc, the walls are adorned with complex carvings, some commemorative of Éomarc’s past, others votive, a hope for safety and success and clear understanding of the world. What isn’t a specific scene is covered in interlacing tendrils of plants, fleshy and elegant, great beasts, stately creatures. It can be said, without exaggeration, that Éothéod decorate more or less everything possible. The whole of buildings, saddles, armour, weapons, combs - even the buttons and knobs on clothes have carvings or garnets or other decorations. Even every day spoons, wooden bowls, cauldrons, meat-spits, are elaborate. Handles of knives, all metalwork, chairs, benches, stools, beds, harnesses for their horses - even the plough animals. The world is one large interconnecting work of art. 

And, as it is still a cool spring month, heavy tapestries line the walls adding layers of decoration atop the preexisting. Erkenbrand was more the Second Marshal of the Marc than Théodred ever was, and so made his home in the Hornburg as a means to be in a better position to see to the cares and needs of the people of the Westfold. Gríma did not think he missed the perpetual presence of the sheer _everything-ness_ that is Éomarc until he was in the sheer absence that is Orthanc. 

The entire room stops when he enters. All halt, turn, stare. Gríma does not think because if he did he would turn and run back into the caves which is not a real possibility since the ranger, who may or may not be an heir to a throne, walks behind him. Besides, it would disappoint Lord Boromir who had said, _I am glad to see you made the right choice._

To which Gríma replied, _I’m running away from Saruman. That’s not making the right choice. That’s being a coward who can’t lie in the bed he made._

And the possible-heir with the greasy hair said, _What matters is that you came back._

Gríma decides he dislikes the possible-king because he has forgiving eyes. At least Lord Boromir, even in his magnanimity, looks at him warily. 

Once the three enter the hall-proper, the men of the Marc form a discreet half-circle behind them, inconveniently blocking exits. So, even if he did want to run, even if he did try, he wouldn’t get far. But he’s here now and he told himself he would see this through to the end. 

Looking down at himself, he takes in filthy clothes, his miserable appearance, mud caked fingers, general air of dampness and feels something like shame for how dirty he is. 

Théoden stands at a table at the head of the hall with Lord Cynric and others of the inner circle of the unofficial Second Marshal Erkenbrand. Cynric leans close to whisper in the king’s ear and Théoden instinctively draws back, a dark expression that quickly clears. They exchange quick words before the king turns around with an interested and expectant face.

A rush of heat crawls up Gríma’s chest to his neck. Stiffly walking forward, between two tables piled with arms, he kneels before Théoden then, as is expected custom, carefully lays himself on the floor with forehead to stone and arms outstretched. 

‘I am come to throw myself on your mercy my lord King. Knowing that I am unworthy of your grace, kindness and mercy,’ he says in Westron before repeating in Éorleden. Théoden’s preference for Westron makes such public rituals difficult at the best of times. Let alone when it is so very necessary that his fellow countrymen also understand exactly what he is saying. He licks his lips before adding: ‘I have nothing but the clothes on my back and a desire to make amends for all the ill I have caused and to attempt, if at all possible, to right my many past wrongs. I know you to be a kind and merciful leader of men and look to your goodness in sparing the life of a --’ he closes his eyes, swallows, ‘a worm such as myself. Though I know I am undeserving of such a gift.’ 

Théoden does not speak. When Gríma opens his eyes and tilts his face a fraction to the side he can see Théoden’s boots. Thinking he should add more he says, ‘I am willing to undertake any task you set to me, my lord. And, though I am unworthy, I would more than willingly pledge my fealty to you. I have broken my oath as your liegeman but know that I feel only remorse and shame for my actions — most especially that they have caused you grievous harm, which was never my intent —’ 

‘That’s enough,’ Théoden says. ‘You can stop with your speech.’ 

Gríma clamps his mouth shut. 

More silence. The only sounds are the occasional boot scuff on stone. A cough. Someone opens a door behind him, at the far end of the hall. 

‘Why should I let you live? We gave you a choice in Edoras and you made your decision.’ 

‘There is no reason to let me live, my lord, save the goodness of your heart and the generosity of your spirit.’ 

A dry laugh. Gríma finds this hopeful. Oh, it’s sardonic, and in his mind he can see Théoden’s raised eyebrow, unimpressed expression. Because he has seen them before when others have grovelled before the king with poor excuses and an evident lack of repentance. But laughter with Théoden is never bad. 

‘The goodness of my heart and generosity of my spirit,’ Théoden drawls after a minute. ‘That’s a pretty line. You always did have a way with words.’ 

‘I am unworthy of such praise, my lord, but I thank you for it.’ 

Straw pokes against Gríma’s cheek. His nose itches and he scrunches it with no effect. The floor smells of hay, mud, dogs and horses. It is infinitely better than the sterile emptiness of Orthanc. 

‘It is not unjustified,’ Théoden replies evenly. ‘I believe few would contest the factual basis of the statement that you have a gift for making pretty speeches. And a gift for having people listen to you, even when they shouldn’t. Tell me, Gríma, is that some form of spellwork?’ 

‘No, my lord,’ is out of Gríma’s mouth without thought. He had half a mind to amend the statement, to provide some explanation as a sort of peace offering. But he is loath to do so in a hall full of men, only a quarter of whom he knows. ‘It is as you say, a gift. A skill, I suppose.’ 

Théoden breaths out. He’s moved to stand directly in front of Gríma before he crouches down. Gríma can feel the presence, tenses, every muscle coiling in expectation.

Théoden’s voice drops low, ‘I know that you would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast. But, you served Éomarc loyalty for fifteen years prior to your deceit and betrayal. And I know you took good care of me, when I was in a more decrepit state. I remember you making sure I ate, you sat with me, cleaned up when I couldn’t. Which I would not expect from a traitor. Why?’ 

‘King is king,’ Gríma replies.

A soft hummed repeat: _King is king._

Gríma thinks that he cannot explain how he loves his king, because of course he does, he is an Éothéod at the end of the day, but he also is angry at his king and he also despairs of his king and the future in general. He cannot see a world that has not turned to wasteland. He knows how his people think cowardice shameful. And what has he done but acted as a coward — a greedy and spiteful one at that. Then, other feelings, thoughts, memories run through his head as a whirlwind. Then, nothing. He goes to his blank place of open fields and big sky. 

Théoden touches his shoulder. Gríma jumps. 

‘You may rise,’ the king says. And Gríma does, though remaining on his knees. ‘You are fortunate that I am feeling generous and have need of men. We are in for a siege and need anyone who can wield a blade. Even if it has been a while. You will take an oath to me, a temporary one, and once this is over we will reevaluate the situation. Understood?’ 

Gríma dutifully nods, opens his mouth to thank Théoden stops when Théoden holds up a hand. No need for more groveling. He’s heard enough, thank you. Gríma ducks his head. 

‘Very well,’ Théoden says, standing at the head of the hall. ‘Pledge your oath. And you may stand, for gods’ sake.’ 

Hastily Gríma does so, brushing off stray bits of hay that cling to tunic and leggings. He is decidedly aware of his state of dress, the mystery blood down the front of his clothes, his hair in disarray, the scabbing of his chin where it glanced off Orthanc’s floor. Taking a cautious step forward, he waits.

In a solemn, sweeping motion Théoden draws his sword and holds it out, pommel in one hand and the flat of the blade resting on open palm of the other. He nods to Háma who steps forward and places a small bit of salt on the blade by the hilt and a small bit of earthen clay on the wide, flat of the sword. He withdraws. 

Now, the hall is truly silent. A pin could drop and the windows would shatter for how loud it would sound. 

Kneeling on his right knee, Gríma breaths out, looks up to the face of his king for the first time since his arrival. Théoden is grave, but unreadable. There is nothing to see but sobriety required of an oath taking. Despite this, he is as Gríma remembers him from before the spellwork. Perhaps a little aged, but still a young sixty-five. Not some old man who can barely walk from bed chamber to dais. 

Three years of spellwork to make Théoden a husk of the man he had once been. Three years, Gríma thinks bleakly. Constant spellwork. He could sleep for one hundred of them, now. 

Licking his lips, Gríma gathers his mind which has spread itself flat out on the earth, and forces himself to focus. With eyes never leaving Théoden’s face, though gods he wants to look anywhere but there, he begins. 

‘Be it known to all, present and future, that I, Gríma son of Gálmód, grandson of Éohéah voluntarily swear, with all that I hold, my service, loyalty, and fealty to my lord Théoden-kunning, son of Thengel, grandson of Fengel, first marshal of the Marc, lord of all Éothéod. I swear to love all that he loves and to shun all that he shuns, in accordance to our law and custom. I will neither willingly, nor intentionally, carry out either word or deed which to him is hateful,’ he falters. Théoden’s face betrays nothing. Gríma swiftly continues, ‘I wish to earn any regard with which he may hold me; and everything he wills me to do, so long as it does not contravene honour and dignity, I will carry out for it is to his will I have chosen to submit. Should I forswear this oath and break my word to my lord Théoden-kunning, he may choose my weregild as he sees best and I will willingly submit myself to it. I will do liege homage to my lord, and I will keep faith with him against all creatures, living or dead. I, a freeborn man of the Marc, willingly, voluntarily and honestly swear this oath in the sight and knowledge of all the lords, and others, present.’ 

Standing again, Gríma quickly steps forward, kneels a second time and thrice kisses the cold steel of the sword. Once by the salt, once by the earth, and once in the centre. The sword lowers, salt and earth falling to ground, mingling black and white on golden straw.

Motioning for Gríma to stand, Théoden speaks out: ‘Be it known to all, present and future, that I Théoden-king, son of Thengel and grandson of Fengel, hereby acknowledge the oath as spoken by Gríma son of Gálmód on this day. However, your devotion to our cause has been called into question. For you were, until recently, in the confidence of our enemies. How speak you?’ 

‘I chose one way forward out of selfish desires and cowardice unworthy of a man of the Marc. I have seen the error of my ways, my lord, and stand ready to prove my fealty.’ 

Théoden smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Oh, you will have chance enough to prove fealty, Gríma son of Gálmód. Be it known that I intend to consider carefully before fully welcoming you back to our cause. The acceptance of your oath will be decided upon the completion of the siege for I believe this will prove a test both for your spirit and your commitment. Yet, for the time being, I make it known to all that you are to be counted amongst the Éothéod and men of this realm of Éomarc from now until such time as it is decreed otherwise.’ 

Gríma bows his head, ‘I thank you, my lord.’ 

The sword resheathed, Théoden calls for Háma saying, ‘Take him and get him cleaned up, clothed, and fed. Then, bring him to me. We have much to discuss.’ 

The last time Gríma was in Helm’s Deep was almost ten years ago when Théoden was touring the marshalates and Théodred was left in Edoras to manage affairs there. Which Gríma had thought foolish, asking, _Why not bring Théodred?_

 _There must always be someone in Edoras to hold the capital_. 

_But mostly to see to summer work, as there hasn’t been a threat to Edoras in oh what, ten, fifteen years? There’s hardly one now._

Théoden had shrugged, it is custom. 

_Well, I could have done that my king. If he was with you he could meet the lords of the land and, I should imagine importantly, their daughters._

Théoden laughed: _I never knew you for matchmaker. Romance doesn’t seem your forte._

_And I’m not. But he’s your only heir and, at thirty-two, ought to be thinking to the future._

Théoden readily agreed - it was Théodred’s duty to marry, and yes he is well past age for it. But there would be time enough for that, Théoden had thought. And so had Gríma. And it had turned out there was hardly any time at all. 

Háma shows Gríma to a small room lit by a clay oil lamp. It contains a large basin of water, a cloth, a chair, a bed, and polished brass to work as a mirror. Háma gestures for Gríma to enter, ‘I’ll find you something to wear.’ 

‘And a comb. I lost mine somewhere in the midst of it all.’ Probably in Orthanc with the other bits and pieces that once held parts of him together. 

‘Sure,’ Háma says. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ 

It would be a bit much to ask for a bath, Gríma supposes. Besides, they’re about to head into battle. Should he survive, he’ll make a bath happen even if it means blackmailing Grimbold about his dalliance with his wife’s sister. Though he hardly believes it will come to that for he isn’t sure they will last a week, let alone an entire siege. A sad thought, no last bath before certain death. 

He wants to scrub Orthanc off of him. But that would require washing himself inside out, an impossibility for the living. So, he makes do with the water in the basin that is cold but clean. Face and neck first before he pulls off both the Dunlander tunic and under-tunic for arms, chest, under arms, back, he thinks he could scrub himself raw. Rip skin off himself. 

A knock. Tugging under-tunic back on Gríma opens the door to Háma who shoves a set of clothes and a sword into his arms. At the top of the neat pile is a comb, an old clasp, several strings. 

‘Be quick about it,’ Háma says. ‘Oh, and here.’ In the doorwarden’s other hand a bowl of soup, some bread tucked under his arm. He edges around Gríma and sets it on the chair. ‘I hope you like parsnips and radishes.’ 

‘They’re delightful.’ 

‘It’s mostly that and I think leeks. Not bad, but not hearty.’ 

‘No meat in it?’ 

‘Unfortunately. We’re being careful with rations and all.’ 

‘Háma, after what I’ve been through, it sounds like a feast fit for kings.’ 

Háma makes a face at him but doesn’t ask for which Gríma is thankful. The doorwarden repeats the order that he be quick about his business then departs in his soft, quiet way. 

Gríma places the clothing on the bed, making sure the pile is neat and orderly before returning to the basin to shave. The brass may be dim in the lamplight but he thinks he’s beginning to see a recognizable face within it. It's a sight that gives him pause. He stares at the bronze face that stares back at him. Everything becomes too much for a moment, a wave wanting to tip over and crash against itself. He drops the cloth in the basin and, holding the edges of the small stand, bends to press forehead against the edge of the wood. 

The floor is cut stone. There is a rug by the bed, small but well made. Erkenbrand is a wealthy lord, he can afford carpets for small, cast-away rooms that no one uses. Gríma's feet are bare and cold. They crunch straw beneath them. Dried sprigs of lavender that need to be changed. He counts the lavender sprigs that are within sight. Counts the smells of the room. Counts what he can hear outside the closed door. He puts order to his world then stands back up and can look at himself again. 

Going to the bed he carefully lays out the clothing Háma procured and finds the new tunic to be in the king’s colours and clearly been through several owners. But, it is a heavy wool and so warm, which is what Gríma currently cares about. And, more importantly, it’s clean. Háma was even kind enough to find a new under-tunic, leggings, and stockings. His boots remain his boots. Which he doesn't mind for they fit his feet and he wouldn't want to walk in someone else's at this moment. 

It’s a wonder, what a wash and new clothes can do. 

Settling on the floor, for, despite being distinctly cleaner than before, he still isn’t sure about the rightness of his using furniture. Picking the comb through his hair in an attempt to impose order on the mess he muses on the nature of kingly duties and ponders the image of Éomer as king. More to the point, Éomer as king, married. It doesn’t quite conjure itself, that picture, for he can’t quite see the lord settled down. 

Éomer bangs about and can never stay in one place for more than a few weeks. Then he’s off, a west wind blowing him this way and that. An east wind calling him off to the Great River and southern borders of his land. Could the man stay in one place long enough to pay proper court to a lady? Doubtful. 

The constant moving is exhausting to think about. Where he gets the energy Gríma isn’t entirely sure. Gods know, Gríma is only ever tired. 

But, all of this said, Éomer always did have an immensely strong sense of personal duty and what is owed to his position and station. Gríma reasons that it comes from having been orphaned at fourteen and having had Éomund as a father. 

Hair takes longer than expected to wrangle into good behaviour. But, after much cursing and internal monologuing about the woes of his life, he manages to get it to a state he deems acceptable for seeing the king. 

  
  


It is in a quiet hallway as he attempts to navigate to the great hall, and thus the king, that Gríma finds himself facing a rider. A rider who is wider than him, though just as tall, with a large nose, strong jaw, short-cropped hair of someone in mourning. The man steps back, registers who Gríma is, then in a fleeting second becomes the embodiment of anger. 

Gríma is slammed against the wall with a cut-off yelp, a knife at his throat, this strange man’s face centimeters from his, breath smelling of ale and cured meat. 

‘You’re the traitor,’ hissed. 

‘Former traitor,’ Gríma manages to squeak out. The man’s grip against his throat doesn’t relax. Fear curls in Gríma's stomach.

‘You killed my son.’ 

‘Did I?’ He thinks he would remember. It’s been a while since he’s killed someone, and the father is clearly in recent mourning. He’s always found murder to cause more problems than it solves. So, unless he absolutely must, he generally tries to avoid engaging in it. 

‘He died defending our village from an orc raid,’ the knife presses more firmly against his throat. Gríma is loath to swallow. To move at all. ‘My son, _my son,_ died because of you. He was twenty. He was only married a week. _A week._ Do you have _any_ idea what we have suffered?’ 

‘Ah.’ Gríma scrambles for words of delicate silk. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. More than I can say.’ 

The knife is cold against skin. It’s sharpness, something to be intimately aware of. Gríma’s breath slows, how he would slow it when Saruman’s piques of anger flared up. The hunted rabbit freezing in vain hope the wolf will lose sight. Looking over the man’s shoulder to hallway he finds it empty. Everyone is out, preparing the fortress for battle. 

‘The king may be inclined towards forgiveness when it comes to child-murder, but I am not,’ the voice cracks. Gríma cannot look in those glassy, red eyes. The raw grief uncomfortable in how tangible it is. You could reach out and touch the air and it would be made of this man’s sorrow. 

Twenty and defending a home from an orc that’s right in front of you is a little different from being one-and-forty, a full man, and deciding to put yourself at risk knowing well you have no heir yourself. But Gríma thinks pointing this out might not be wise. 

Instead, Gríma rasps more apologies. Makes them as sincere sounding as he can. He tries to channel his memories of when his brother Baldir didn’t come home and his father fell to bits but can’t manage it because comforting Gálmód was like comforting a viper. So he goes on about how he can never fully repair what he has broken, but he is going to try and make some good out of the ill and harm &tc. &tc. 

But the man shows no sign of relenting and Gríma’s leaving his body and he thinks he’s probably late for Théoden and how will that look? Now that he is away from Saruman, now that he’s had time to think, time to himself in a room with a wash basin and clean clothes on his back, he finds he has no desire to die. 

‘The king-’ he starts. 

‘Should have severed your head from your body as soon as look at you.’ 

‘Possibly. But as it is, he’s waiting for me.’ 

The man takes a moment to register the words and when he does, his mouth pulls into an ugly sneer. He laughs in Gríma’s face. ‘Why would the king want to see you, Wyrm?’ 

The grief mingles with rage and Gríma isn’t sure which one he should be more wary of. With Gálmód he was more vicious in grief than anger. It was in grief that he said Gríma was cold as death, mean as a snake and twice as hungry. It was in grief he said the wrong son died. It was in grief he stomped about the house. Up and down the length of the fire from byre to door and back. The dogs kept scarce of him as did his children. In anger he would simply sigh, get up, and leave for several hours. 

Gríma doesn’t know how to make this man step back. He doesn’t know how to make him calm down and willing to perhaps put that knife away that is now resting with sharp edge on Gríma’s pulse. He decides there’s nothing for it. This man isn’t Éomer, isn’t Saruman or Théoden or Gandalf or Gálmód or Brynja or Owensel or Baldir or Háma or Éothaine or Théodred or Éowyn or Gundahar or anyone else who has been furious at him and he’s managed to right a tipped ship. 

‘Please,’ Gríma begs, ‘let me go.’ 

The man tightens his grip on Gríma’s shoulder. He is shoved harder into the clammy rock wall.

‘I’m nothing,’ Gríma pleads. ‘It wouldn’t give you any honour to kill me.’ 

The man sneers. ‘No, it wouldn’t. Because it’s like killing a cur. But that doesn’t mean I won’t.’ 

‘Please.’ Gríma tries to make himself smaller than he already has. He can’t shrink any more. ‘I’ll do whatever you want. Just, don’t hurt me. Please, let me go.’ 

But the grip doesn’t lessen, the knife doesn’t move from his throat. Gríma can see the man thinking through a plan. But, despite the grief and rage and bravado, Gríma doesn’t believe the man to be a killer. Not like him, not like others he has known. He thinks, _Fuck._ This isn’t what he wanted to do. This isn’t how he wanted to resolve the situation. 

Sucking in a breath, Gríma reaches up and wraps a hand around the wrist that holds the knife. The man scowls at him but doesn’t move, instead braces for what he assumes will be Gríma attempting to pull the arm away. Shifting gaze to a middle spot between them, Gríma unfocuses his eyes so the world partially blurs then, with thumb, traces a circle against the back of the man’s hand. Circling over and over as he says, ‘You’re going to set me down, now. Because I have to see the king. Do you understand?’ 

When he layers spellwork into words, it is viscous and tactile. His mouth feels full, the words take time to form and transfer from his mind through the air of lungs and out into the world. Sometimes, it almost bites when he does it. The heady, smokey sting of a wasp. Irreverent and unhallowed. Mostly, though, it feels as if he must speak through the blood of the gods that is honey. 

And it makes his head throb, in the back, just above his neck. His muscles take an age to relax afterwards. At the height, with Théoden, he never unwound because it was constant. The whispers and pulling up magic from somewhere within him and putting it out into the world. It’s from the base of the spine. At least, that’s where he’s always visualized it, the few times he allows himself to think about his body in any meaningful way. Anyway, it’s not pleasant, the witchcraft, spellcraft. It’s distinctly uncomfortable, if not outright painful. Currently, his palm burns and his head aches and his neck is riddled with knots. 

He suspects humans were never meant to do it. 

But gods is it worth it. 

The man steps back, lowers the knife, and lets Gríma go. Oh, the man is glaring, his fury a palpable thrum that makes Gríma’s skin itch that anxious way you get when you know you’re at the edge of possible harm. But the man is no longer touching Gríma and that is what matters. 

Gríma side steps him, desperate to make it to the hall, away from the anger, the sorrow so strong you can smell it. Gríma never thought grief had a smell, unlike fear which stinks, but he was wrong. Grief smells of this man with his bloodshot eyes, unkempt beard, and his rage. His rage. 

‘Is that what you did to our king?’ Spat at Gríma who halts and half-turns so as to be in profile to the man. 

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ 

‘Whatever you just did there, Wyrmtunga. Spellcraft, seiðr,’ the word positively sneered, ‘is that what you did? Made him act outside himself?’ 

‘No man acts outside himself,’ Gríma replies, cold. ‘That’s a pretty lie men tell themselves to absolve them of guilt when they do something horrendous out of drunkenness or anger or worse still, out of love. No man is ever outside of himself. He is merely showing us more facets of who he is.’ 

Gríma stares at the man’s face. The face that is his father’s face when Baldir’s shield was sent home but no body or sword. His father took the shield from the Third Marshal and turned around to look at Ceridwen and when he did, he wore this face. This unspeakable grief. _Because no man,_ Gálmód said, _should have to bury his son._

The pause, this breath of air between them, causes Gríma to relent a fraction. He sighs, heavily. ‘What does this tell you?’ He asks. ‘It should tell you that you let me go not because I told you to, but because, at the end of the day, you are not a murderer.’ 

Éomer calls Gríma’s _skillset_ galdorcræft, for he thinks purely of the words spoken. And galdorcræft isn’t entirely wrong, but it is both not enough and too much. Yes, words are spoken, but galdorcræft means _all_ witchcraft, magic, tröllcræft, that is spoken or sung or canted or chanted or screamed or wept or seethed out between teeth over water that boils. It is _all_ and Gríma does not do all. Shamefully, what Gríma does is seiðr. 

More or less. 

Not that he would tell anyone this. 

Seiðr is women’s work. Prophesying and scrying and making men mad with knowledge or illusion or illusion of knowledge. It causes forgetfulness, delusions, fear, fog. It is sjónhverfing for which there is no word in Westron but it is something like _deception of the sight in eye and mind_. It can be done through word or action or potion or poison. 

It is not a craft men are to do. If men do magic, if men are folk-cunning, they do galdorcræft or tröllcræft. But, he had no say in what that thing in Fangorn gave him and so he ended up with seiðr.

The other little tricks he has: making fire, causing plants to grow at unnatural speed; while those aren’t seiðr they’re not galdorcræft, either. Tröllcræft, he supposes. His mother would call it vrăjitorie. If she knew about it. Which she does and doesn’t. 

[When Gríma was sixteen there had been problems. Mostly, things jumping off shelves and stools moving of their own accord. But the biggest was the horses. Across Alstadt they had begun escaping to go out and wild themselves on the highlands of the Wold. All tricks were tried to bring them back and none worked. All songs were sung to woo them homeward and none worked. All bells were jingled and pipes whistled and drums drummed and none worked. 

Three months in, and during a late night hour, his mother woke him with a rough shake. 

Out in the fields, grass cool to the touch for it was a late October night, Ceridwen took hold of his shoulder; her fingers digging in deep enough to bruise. She stilled herself. He did the same, for there was no other option and besides, he had always been a still child. Once he was perfectly still, and the night air perfectly still, and the bugs perfectly quiet, Ceridwen began to rock, ever so slightly, back and forth. She hummed as she did, a low tone that nested in the pit of stomachs. After several long moments she lifted her head and sang the horse song. The one that calls them home. The one they had not been listening to for the past many weeks. And when she did Gríma felt something jolt up his spine, sharp and hot, then over into his right shoulder where she held him. When Ceridwen sang this night, the horses listened. They came and were biddable. They followed them back to fenced pasture land and made themselves content with their home. 

Ceridwen did not speak in the fields. She did not speak as they led the horses home. She did not speak as they secured gates. It was before Gríma ducked into the house that she stopped him. 

_Whenever did you procure that?_

_A year or so ago._

_And from where did it come?_

He shrugged. He didn’t know. It just did. 

She looked at him with her even, expressionless eyes then nodded. _Very well, we are all entitled to our secrets. Get you to bed. And not a word about this, ever, to your father or brothers._

_Brynja?_

_No, not a word to her either. I tell you this for your sake. This is not Rhûn, and even in Rhûn, I would bid you lie to the world._ ] 

An old Éothéod poem, half canted, half sung, he grew up with it resonating in the back of his mind: _Það man hún fólkvíg, CerðiÞwyn hana hétu hvar, völu velspáa, seið hún hugleikin, æ var hún angan illrar brúðar_ \- 

_CerðiÞwyn they called her, a sybil skilled in scrying, playing with the minds of men through seiðr, oh was she ever the joy of evil women -_

There was more, of course. CerðiÞwyn was burnt three times, rose again three times, and three times made magical staves with which to turn the tide of war. One of Elm, one of Ash, and one of the tall grasses of Éomarc.

The room Théoden has turned into an unofficial council chamber is well-heated for which Gríma is thankful. He’s been cold since he arrived in Orthanc. Even before Orthanc, for it had been a cold night leading into the chilly morning of Gandalf’s arrival. 

And speaking of wizards, Greyhame is not present. Another thing for which Gríma is thankful. 

The council room contains the expected of Théoden’s kith and kin: Éomer, Háma, Cynric, Gamling, among a few others. It also contains Gundahar, which is a mystery to Gríma’s mind for Gundahar has the intellect of a log. Perhaps the younger man has slain a few orcs therefore proven himself to be worthy of consideration. 

Or, perhaps Théoden simply likes him. There’s something of Théodred as a young man in Gundahar’s face. Perhaps it’s that. Reminds Théoden of twenty years ago when he was still in his prime and his son a young, upcoming prince. A lifetime of things have passed since then. 

Gríma is announced by a harried Grimbold who steps far enough in the chamber to be respectful, ‘Gríma son of Gálmód, my lord king,’ before quickly pulling himself away to tend to the many and sundry things required to prepare for life in a siege. 

‘Good,’ Théoden motions Gríma in. Aside from the king’s household and Éomer, there is Lord Boromir, the hidden reconciler of men (that is, the ranger-king), the dwarf and elf. 

Gandalf must have ridden off on some mission, or perhaps he is present and attending to other things. He assumes the former. Gandalf wouldn’t let Gríma be present before Théoden-kunning without ensuring his own attendance. 

‘The first part of your weregild, aside from taking up arms as required, is information. How large is Saruman’s army?’ 

Gríma takes another tentative step closer to the partial circle of lords. ‘Around ten thousand Uruk Hai of his own, my lord. A few thousand orcs of various origins. Several hundred Dunlanders.’ 

‘We heard they have begun to assemble a cavalry.’ 

Ah, Éowyn must have passed that along. It was a bit of a slip, not that it matters now. 

‘Yes,’ he draws out his reply. ‘But the cavalry won’t be part of this, I suspect. Only infantry of maybe two hundred. The politics of the Dunlanders and their relationship with Saruman is in an interesting phase, at the moment. Fraught, shall we say.’ 

Éomer dramatically rolls his eyes. Lord Boromir snorts. The ranger-king is unreadable but Gríma thinks he feels an anxious energy from the man. His sword is very present. So, he assumes the claim to Gondor’s throne is going forward. The dwarven - prince? diplomat? - looks as if he’s having the time of his life. The elf, who he would like to speak with, is also unreadable. 

‘Fraught how?’ Cynric asks. 

‘They’ve a new chieftain. A young man, Rhodri, who can’t be more than five and twenty. He took over from his father who passed a few months ago.’ 

‘Making whatever agreements that existed between old Ithel and Saruman void.’

‘Precisely. And Rhodri isn’t as keen as his father was for such an alliance. He’s grander plans, I suspect.’ 

Théoden muses over this, walks a circle around the room as he listens. Then, as he pauses by the fireplace, ‘Grander plans meaning Éomarc?’ 

‘Possibly.’ 

‘Could he manage it?’ 

‘Not right now, but maybe, yes, in the future. He’s clever, intelligent, and charismatic. Not someone to underestimate. And he has a claim to the land. That old chestnut.’ 

Théoden agrees with a look and Gríma flashes a smile. He likes Lord Boromir, this isn’t the time to be mentioning that, one could argue (and, indeed, Rhodri would), Cirion had no right to the land he gifted Eorl, which rather does bring into question the entire legitimacy of the Oath. 

‘And what does Saruman know of our defences?’ Éomer asks. 

‘He knows how many men are here, given that my estimations were correct. I told him that I guessed there would be around five thousand cavalry, but more realistically two or three, plus maybe a thousand on foot. I also told him that you would take to Helms Deep and if he wanted to take Edoras, which is the end goal, he needed to take the fortress first.’ 

Éomer thinks this over, ‘Would he split his army do you think? Half here, half Edoras?’ 

‘I doubt it. I don’t think he has the logistical capabilities for that. And he’s rushed. Don’t ask me why, but he is clearly moving faster than initially intended. So, knowing him, I would assume he’d try and strike hard at where the king and his heir are in order to eliminate them.’ 

This seems to spark interest in Boromir and his companions for they exchange not-terribly-subtle glances. After which, Boromir asks: ‘Do you think we are in for a long siege?’ 

Gríma shrugs. Who can say. But he doesn’t think so. Because again, those feisty logistics. A delicate pause before Gríma adds: ‘He’s bringing fire powder, my lord, with the intent to weaken the foundations of the main doors of the Hornburg. Or, at least, that’s what I told him to do with it.’ 

Another dramatic expression from Éomer. A quiet snort from Théoden. Raised eyebrows from Háma and the foreigners. 

‘If it gives you any hope, he had a habit of not listening to me. He was initially working under the assumption that if the wall fell, the fortress would fall. I corrected his misinformation. I don’t know if he took my suggestions on board, though.’ 

‘Do we know how much fire powder?’ The dwarf asks. Gríma decides he must be a lord or prince given his clothes, his evident education, polite manner, mode of speech. Not to mention, it aligns with the calibre of Boromir’s group. 

‘Ah, no, my lord.’ Gríma thinks he could try and dredge up the exact memory of that _particular_ conversation but he believes Théoden would not appreciate reflexive gagging. ‘Enough to undo the wall. However much that would be.’ 

The dwarf lord to Théoden: ‘I’ll work it out, my lord. We use such things in mining. If Saruman’s using regular fire powder, it’ll be similar enough.’ 

Rejoining the other counselors at the table, Théoden pulls a rough sketch of the fortress towards him. He eyes it for a moment, then pushes it in the direction of Gríma. ‘Where did you tell him to apply it?’ 

Gríma cautiously approaches, can feel the weight of all their eyes, the silence but for the noises of the fire and the outside din of preparations. With markers of thin wood he indicates the drainage ditch of the wall and the front doors. 

‘I told him that there are areas around the doors that could be undone with an explosion which would allow the main gates to open.’ 

Théoden to Cynric, ‘Any way to reinforce these areas?’ 

‘Depends on the timeline.’ 

Théoden to Gríma, ‘When should we expect the forces to arrive?’ 

‘I wasn’t given a timeline. But uh, soon.’ 

An unimpressed look from Théoden. 

‘Tomorrow night or the next day,’ Gríma tries. ‘Maybe.’ 

‘Regardless, not enough time for us to assemble anything they couldn’t dismantle,’ Cynric sighs. ‘We may as well do what we can, just to make it a bit more difficult for them. We can’t be handing them the wall or front gates on a silver platter.’ 

A few more questions are put to Gríma about capabilities, ranks, officers, training, equipment before Théoden dismisses him. Says that this has been most helpful, and if he has any more questions Gríma will be called in to answer them. In the meanwhile, he can make himself useful. ‘Háma, give him over to Grimbold who will put him to work. You’ve eaten, right?’ 

Gríma makes a face. ‘I have, my lord.’ 

‘Good. It may well have been twenty years since you’ve handled a sword, but we won’t have you falling over from exhaustion and hunger before you’ve a chance to reacquaint yourself with the joys of battle.’ 

Gríma bows low, ‘I thank you, my lord.’ 

Théoden’s loud laugh. Gríma hasn’t heard it in years. And, looking up, he meets the face of the man he once knew and it is full of the king’s wry, but gentle, humour. ‘You are perfectly miserable with this situation, I can tell. Good. Should we survive, we will discuss your longer term weregild. For now, you’re under Grimbold’s care until the battle. Then, Éomer will mind you.’ A hand held up as Éomer opens his mouth. ‘I’ve much to do and much to think about, sister-son. But, as you are my heir, and his weregild is to our house and our people, it’s only right and fitting that he fight under our banner.’

‘Of course, my lord. It will be done,’ Éomer stiffly replies. 

Gríma meets Éomer’s unhappy eye and quickly stuffs down a mocking smile before bowing again to Théoden and duly following Háma out of the room.


	19. Where is the horse and the rider

The first of Saruman’s army can be seen by early afternoon the day after Gríma’s arrival. Scouts for the king return with tales of more of the Westfold burning and confirmation of estimated numbers. Upon arriving at the mouth of the Coomb, the present forces stall and appear disinterested in engaging with the Éothéod. Instead, they send out raids and foraging parties to run havoc over the countryside. But the siege? No signs of their beginning to dig in. To which Cynric says he’ll not look a gift horse in the mouth. Théoden replies that sometimes it’s best to do just that and gods what he would give to know their plan. This conversation drifts into the private council chambers and is heard no more. 

Gríma, having been instructed to help sharpen the many and sundry blades, listens glumly to the speculation of the men around him. Cautious glances, raised eyebrows, murmurs of suspicion gather up and become positively loud for such quiet actions. 

How much of this general unease is due to his overall reappearance, the manner of his reappearance (much whispering about witchcraft to which Gríma wishes to say: _always look for the simplest answer first, it’s usually the right one_ ), or the unfortunate encounter with the bereft father is difficult to say. Word travels faster here than a bit of coin from a gambler’s hand to the card table.

‘It’s the waiting that’s hard to bear, and it’s the waiting that I don’t trust,’ one man is saying. Wethergyld, if Gríma remembers rightly. Or, perhaps Wethergyld is the redhead beside him. Positively florid and freckled. The men are seeing to shields and marking those in need of repair and those fit for battle. Gríma is near enough with his pile of swords and arms sore from the repetition. 

He sets a finished one to the side and takes up a new one, still pondering which one Wethergyld and which one is not-Wethergyld. As they’re both under Éomer’s banner, Éothain’s to be exact, he reasons he’ll work out their names soon enough. The lovely, layered system of levy’s means there are retinues within retinues, bannered men fighting under other banners. Gríma sits between the minor ones of Éomer’s land. Passed between one lord to another like an unwanted child. 

‘Well, it gives us more time to ready ourselves,’ the redhead who might be Wethergyld replies. 

‘Sure, but they’re also preparing,’ blond-Wethergyld says. ‘And who knows what sorcery the white wizard is going to employ against us.’ 

‘I heard Saruman’s sending 20,000 men and orcs.’ 

‘Doubtful. I would say ten or fifteen.’ 

‘Gunner said twenty and he heard it from Héawulf and I feel that Héawulf would know.’ Redhead Wethergyld affably shrugs. ‘Anyway, I trust Gunner.’ 

General hums of concerned thought. Stones scrape over edges of swords. Gríma does his best to appear unnoticeable but in this he must have somehow become noticeable for suddenly blond-Wethergyld has him in his sights. 

The blond one, ‘You would know, wouldn’t you?’ 

Gríma doesn’t answer. 

‘Wyrmtunga.’ 

Gríma glances up, as if just hearing him, ‘I beg your pardon?’ 

‘You would know how big Saruman’s army is.’ 

‘Would I?’ 

‘Surely the wizard told you.’ 

‘You overestimate my role in all of this, I assure you.’ 

‘Do I?’ Blond-Wethergyld wears no expression, staring blunt as a war horse. Gríma raises eyes from sword and stone to meet that blank face and waits for more. Redhead-Wethergyld nudges his friend, mutters that it’s not worth it. 

‘Snake,’ redhead-Wethergyld says simply. ‘Wouldn’t know how to tell the truth if his life depended on it.’ 

‘But it does,’ the blond replies. ‘So evidently he spoke truth to the king and Lord Éomer.’ 

‘Truth? Or witchcraft laden lies?’ 

‘Lord Boromir was there in the council,’ the blond continues. ‘He comes from a family of great learning. I’ve heard Lord Denethor is wise in the ways of the Dark Lord’s sorcery. And there was the elf prince. If Wyrm weaved a spell, I assume the elf would be aware of it.’ 

Which would be a possibility, if spell weaving were present. Gríma doesn’t know what magic elves have but the stories of Lothlórien make him think it a subtle, wiley kind of craft. One form of cunning knows another. 

And Saruman always knew when Gríma was trying something, so why not the elf? Even his mother knew, and she a mere fjolk-kunnar, which has no real magic in it. Well, not in the sense of what he has. Though she used his often enough, when it best suited her to. Like Saruman, in that way. Tap into someone else’s fire and take the heat for your own gain. 

When Gríma attends back to Wethergyld, both blond and red-haired, he finds they’ve moved on in conversation, having evidently given up on him. 

  
  


Late afternoon brings a change of occupation from sword sharpener to assisting in construction of the hoarding along the Deeping Wall. Wooden structures that are built as needed, they provide some protection to the archers and enable a better line of fire for it allows a person to forego the archery slits and instead climb over the crenelations and balustrade to fire directly down upon the enemy. 

That he be allowed to walk so freely about before the battle began had been a surprise. Gríma had assumed he’d be kept in the main hall under some sort of guard and sat in a corner sharpening swords until he died of boredom. But, Théoden was hard pressed for men and desperate times, desperate measures &tc. Anyway, there was always someone around keeping a not-too-subtle eye on him. What did they expect him to do? Sabotage his one hope for survival? 

Best not ponder that. Their suspicions are warranted. 

The Deeping Wall, flung out from one side of the bay to another, provides a clear view of the Coomb and the vale beyond. Turning around affords one the sight of steep mountain cliffs, the slim cut pass that leads deep into rocky terrain. He has never been through it but has heard it is a difficult route. Something to take only when truly desperate. Piling above the mountains are dark clouds threatening rain. The air is thick with its possibility. 

Pushing open an arrow slat to better see the dyke by the entrance of the bay, its wall, and the shadow of orcs beyond Gríma estimates perhaps five thousand have arrived. Another five to go, plus Dunlanders and whatever stray tag-alongs decide to join up. The dyke will not be manned, he thinks. It’s impossible with the slim resources present and even if Erkenbrand arrived with his several thousand they would still be hard pressed. 

If the uruks take the dyke they’ll dig in. Make it so no rescue can easily come from the Coomb. Or maybe they won’t. At this rate, Gríma thinks he should stop trying to assume what Saruman will do since normalcy in action has long been tossed out the window. 

‘What think you of our chances?’ 

Ah, Éomer. Just his luck. Gríma lets the door close with a soft thud and turns about. The hoarding along this particular stretch of the balustrade is covered with wetted skins so to reduce the chance of fire being set. Therefore, they are shadowed. Éomer leans against a support beam, framed by the granite of the crenulations. Gríma is on the other side, the part that archers stand on to shoot below. Which is to say, he is on wooden planks suspended over open air. There is nothing solid beneath foot. 

Éomer takes out an apple, rubs it on his tunic, then takes a bite. He chews thoughtfully. 

‘Not great, my lord.’ 

‘Ten thousand?’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ 

Another bite and contemplative chew. 

‘How long will the siege last, do you think?’ 

‘I couldn’t say, my lord.’ 

‘Any good with an arrow?’ Éomer glances up and down - takes in the old tunic of the king’s green, the quilting atop for no one would spare leather, let alone precious mail, the old sword at Gríma’s side. ‘I’ve limited expectations for sword-work. Though I understand you’re handy with a knife.’ 

‘My aim is true. With both arrow and knife.’ 

A sly smile. ‘And are you a quick draw?’ 

‘Tolerably.’ 

‘I never knew you for an archer.’ 

‘Because I’m not. And there are many things you don’t know about me. My lord.’ 

Bite. Contemplative chew. Grims thinks the covered hoarding to be rather warm, despite the cool March day. They are cut off from view of others working along the wall and the clouds gathering make an already shadowed space darker. 

‘True.’ Éomer slowly turns the apple around to start on the other side. ‘The omens were read before I left Aldburg.’ 

‘Any joy?’ 

‘They said nothing of the war, but did speak to yet another cold and wet summer.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

‘My senechal says it’s been increasingly worse over the last twenty years.’ 

Gríma makes a noise of interest. He holds a hammer in hand, he turns it about without thought. He should do something but isn’t sure what, so just stands stupidly and waits for Éomer to continue. 

‘He says that it’s a progressive thing,’ Éomer says after another bite. ‘The cool summers.’ 

‘Well, Sauron’s been clouding up the sky for some time now. I doubt that’s helped.’ 

‘You were always good at crop management in lean times. A Wold thing?’ 

‘Aldstadt is a border town, my lord. Small, but we had connections into Dale.’ 

‘I see. Import opportunities, then, that others in the Wold, let’s say Bamford, may not have.’ 

Gríma nods. 

‘So, where’d you learn it?’ 

‘Yrmenlaf, my lord.’ 

Éomer works through more of his apple. Gríma struggles to see what the lord is about. It’s a terrible nuisance that, when Éomer wishes to be inscrutable, he is a master of the art. A surprising feature of a man who is generally open as the fields and tends towards brash actions, not unlike his father. 

‘Tell me, Gríma, why would you seek to undo your own work?’ 

‘How do you mean?’ 

‘Everything you’ve done for the last, what, fifteen years?’ 

‘Seventeen this November.’ 

‘Seventeen years. Everything you’ve worked for, the industry, the agricultural growth, whatever new kingship apparatus my uncle is so keen on, which I have thoughts about - all of that you’d destroy?’ 

‘I wasn’t necessarily trying to undo it. More, a sideways attempt to save it?’ 

A sharp smile. ‘That’s an interesting reinterpretation of events.’ 

Gríma shrugs. He isn’t, strictly speaking, lying. He’s just leaving out details. A man is allowed some secrets, after all. Éomer finishes his apple and leans around Gríma to drop it though an arrow slot in the floor of the hoarding. 

Still close, but pulling back to the beam he lent against, Éomer asks: ‘You’d save us by handing us over to Saruman?’ 

‘Vassal states can do well --’ 

‘That’s not saving.’ 

‘We’re at cross purposes, my lord. What mean you by the word “save”? I think we’ve different understandings.’ 

‘To keep our freedom. To preserve us from the Dark Lord. And you?’ 

‘To survive the Dark Lord. Better a vassal than dead.’ Gríma pauses. There’s a thought that sits at the front of his mind and he wonders how much he wishes to annoy the man before him. Licking lips he adopts a meek tone, ‘My lord, and I mean no disrespect, but in your estimate who, exactly, are you saving? Your people or your family’s pride and position?’ 

‘Eorlingas.’ 

‘Éothéod existed without Eorl before and can do so again.’ 

Éomer scowls, Gríma takes a half-step back, bumps against the wooden wall, the archery flap. 

‘You are on thin ice, Wyrmtunga. I would watch what I say, were I you.’ 

Gríma bows, goes into humble apology mode for a minute until Éomer stops him saying: ‘Please do me the courtesy of only apologizing when you _actually_ mean it. I’m not like the king. I can’t stomach groveling.’ 

Gríma breathes out, ‘Of course, my lord. I’m sorry -- that is, I shall endeavor to please you.’ 

A dramatic roll of eyes from the future king who mutters, ‘Fine enough, I suppose.’ 

Why are all conversations with Éomer like running a gauntlet? As Éomer turns to go Gríma calls to him, ‘Wait, my lord, the siege. I thought you’d want to know that Saruman won’t be riding with his army. There’ll be no White Wizard to contend with on the field.’ 

Éomer’s eyebrows lift, ‘Why not?’ 

‘Because he’s a fool, for all his wisdom.’ 

‘You certainly have changed your tune.’ 

‘It was as you said, he’s a dragon with a dragon’s voice and a dragon’s arrogance.’ 

‘And with a dragon’s breath,’ Éomer adds. He eyes Gríma for a long moment, then knocks twice on the wooden beam for luck. ‘When you’re done with Grimbold’s tasks, I’d try and get a bit of shut-eye. We’re in for a long night.’ 

‘Of course, my lord. I shall--’ 

‘Endeavour to please me. Yes, you do say that often for someone who does so little of it.’ 

Gríma drops his eyes, murmurs about trying his best at which Éomer laughs. Gríma looks up in confusion. 

Éomer, ‘I have missed our incredibly bizarre conversations. What was it you once said? We’re always playing a game. I suppose it lends some sense of normal to otherwise strange times.’ 

Gríma gives a cautious smile then swallows it, bows, says he had best get back to his duties. Hoarding doesn’t build itself. 

[A visit to Saruman, bringing word from the king. Sometime after the start of what Gríma can now look back on and clearly see as a sort of wooing period. The sunset blood red, the sky streaked with vibrant purples and oranges. It was unlike any sunset Gríma had ever seen. He said to Saruman, _It’s Sauron, isn’t it? I remember there being a dust veil once, after a minor eruption of a mountain out east. But it came on the wind to us in Éomarc._

Saruman had replied, _Yes. It is Sauron’s doing. Think of the Fields of Celebrant, the Brown Lands to the east. Think of the desolation of Emyn Muil, the summers that are steadily colder and colder, wetter and wetter. Think of the moulding crops, fungus ridden grains, the blight affecting foals in the south of the Eastemnet. Think of those lungs of the dead birds. Think of how, in parts of Gondor, when you breathe it is ash and dust that chokes out air._

 _All the world will be covered in a second darkness. More fearsome than that of the Second Age, more fearsome than what Morgoth sought to create. But, fear not, I have means to stave off the worst of it. Sauron listens to reason. He understands the importance of order, of tidiness, of neatness, in a chaotic world._ ]

It’s raining when the battle commences. Because of course it’s raining. Heavy, it sloughs off hair, face, armor, stairs, balustrades, hoarding, exposed crenelations. 

Gods, Gríma hates rain. 

Blinking light of fires in the Coomb provide some idea of the location of different parts of Saruman’s army as they sweep in over the dyke. Unmanned, yes, but not strictly undefended, for there are traps lain with false ground over pike laden pits. Cries can be heard, thin, reedy screams, beneath the din of rain. 

As a member of Éomer’s retinue, along with the other castaways of the elf and the ranger-king, Gríma finds himself stationed along the Deeping Wall. Théoden had said, _Eastfold men are the best archers._ And Éomer had laughed, _You just don’t want to get wet._

Éothain, standing to Gríma’s left, eyes his bow. ‘Are you any good with that?’ 

‘I’ve been told so.’ 

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Éothain’s attention returns to the steady advancement of orcs, uruks and Dunlanders. They are a mass of shadows impressed against shadow - only with lightning are they able to get a clear visual of who they’re fighting. 

‘What a steady stream of foul beasts,’ a voice sing-speaks in Westron with an accent Gríma has never heard before. The Rs curl and roll, the vowels are all up in the nose and the S and Ts break like rocks in their hardness. Following the voice is the presence of Lord Boromir’s elven friend. 

A second flash of lightning makes plain the elf’s gleeful face as he eyes their enemy. 

Éothain, in Eorléden, ‘Why is Lord Éomer getting saddled with the driftwood?’ 

Gríma, primly, ‘Elves are known for their prowess with a bow I’ve heard. I, personally, am pleased to be next to someone with a thousand more years experience than the rest of us.’ 

Éothain’s sneering smile caught in another flash of lightning. ‘Someone to cover you?’ 

‘Why not?’ 

‘T’is cowardly.’ 

Gríma thinks better of trotting down that road so turns to the elf and in Westron introduces himself. ‘I’m afraid we’ve not been properly introduced. Gríma son of Gálmód at your service, although I believe you might know my name already.’ 

‘Maybe,’ the elf shrugs. ‘Legolas Thranduilon of Mirkwood, at yours.’ 

Gríma decides that the elf is better company than the ranger-king with his obnoxious attempts at being kind. He says in rusty Sindarin, ‘I’ve always wished to meet an elf. But I suppose you must hear that often.’ 

‘Why must you suppose that? But la! you speak my tongue. I did not expect to hear it in this far flung realm. Your language is pleasant to the ear, though, unlike Westron, so I do not suffer overmuch from a lack of music in the air.’ 

‘That is kind of you to say. And Théoden-kunning grew up speaking Sindarin. Aside from Westron it’s his preferred language.’ 

Legolas turns to look at him directly. A narrow face, with umber skin and black hair, dark eyes. Gríma waits for something to be said and the elf appears to be waiting for him to speak. They stand in silence for a long moment. Then, Legolas slowly smiles, a gradual spill that fills his face: ‘That must be a hardship for your people.’ 

‘Only for those in his household. Most only manage Westron.’ 

‘A leader should speak the language of his people.’ 

‘He does,’ Gríma shrugs. ‘It’s just not his preferred tongue.’ 

‘And his heir?’ 

‘Lord Éomer? Oh, he much prefers Eorléden. His father didn’t speak much Westron, I believe. And he likes the wordplay. Do you have kennings in Sindarin?’ 

‘I do not know what a kenning is, but maybe we do.’ 

A crack of thunder. Gríma flinches, glowers up at the sky. ‘Ask me after the battle. I’ll explain. But to your question, I believe Lord Éomer’s Sindarin is worse than mine.’ 

Legolas hums a tune and turns back to face their enemy. Éothain nudges Gríma and mutters: ‘Stick to Westron. I want to know what you’re saying.’ 

Gríma rolls his eyes. Shifts, he thinks to say something to Legolas but the elf is leaning over the wall and looking down to the earth below. Gríma sighs, leans on his bow, thinks that he’s done far too much waiting for the inevitable over the last four days. 

The sound of approaching army overwhelms. Drums, feet, armor, trumpet calls. It’s a mudslide how they surge into the bay, rising up and over the dyke, down to form ranks in front of the fortress and her walls. 

Gríma leans a fraction into the arrow slit to see the glimmer of the Deeping Stream. Which means they’re directly above the drain. Fear cuts through him cold and hard. It slices down chest and into stomach. Gods, he doesn’t want to do this. He wants to run. Gods, he _can’t_ do this. 

Notching his bow, Legolas smiles a thin, vicious smile, ‘How they sing howl for death. No creature does it quite like orcs. Not even wolves and we know their deep songs well in Mirkwood.’ 

Snatches of words slide up the walls. Gríma says to no one in particular, ‘It’s soldier song. One of those dirty ones.’ 

‘Do tell,’ Éothain replies. 

‘Something about our mothers being whores and all our fathers are cuckolds.’ 

‘I do not know what a cuckold is,’ Legolas replies with the tone of one who has no wish to understand. 

Éothain grins over at the elf, ‘Least said the better on that.’ 

Gríma, full of nerves and so must speak, explains what cuckold means. Declares that Grimbold’s brother-in-law is one which makes Éothain emit a peel of laughter. In Eorléden the lord says, ‘I thought there was something going on with his wife’s sister.’ 

‘Torrid. Last midsummer jól. I’ll spare you the gory details.’ 

Down the wall, as the rain picks up and truly begins to pelt large, heavy drops down, smacking skin and stone, Éomer yells an order to notch bows. It’s passed down the wall as a wave. 

A sharp jab of lightning, the earth of Deeping bay crawls, seethes with orcs. Gríma’s stomach churns. There is a knife of fear and it’s stabbing him beneath ribs. It’s going in and twisting. How he was taught to stab someone. _It’s in, up, and twist,_ Baldir always said. _That way you do enough damage inside you know they’ll die._

They have not yet drawn bows but he does not know if he has the strength to do so. 

‘Where’s your friend?’ He asks Legolas with some distraction. ‘The dwarf.’ 

‘Gimli son of Gloin.’ Evident fondness. 

‘Sure, that one.’ 

‘With Boromir at the Hornburg. Aie, aie,’ a soft wail. ‘We had a disagreement before we came away from the Fords and we have not the merry chance to make amends.’ 

_The merry chance to make amends,_ Gríma tucks that phrase away. Out loud he says a terribly awkward, ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Gimli said that I do not understand the beauty of below ground.’ 

‘Right.’ 

‘And truly I do not; but I was piqued for he said such things about Fangorn, most marvelous of forests, and so I said unto him that I did not see how there could be life in the remains of the earth.’ 

Gríma thinks this over for a beat. Waits for a roll of thunder to pass. ‘So, it’s a cultural disagreement?’ 

‘He said I would visit the Lonely Mountain with him after the war.’ Was that a wistful tone? Hard to tell with the rain and not knowing how best to read the elf.

‘Dale’s nice.’ 

‘I said I did not know if I could visit a place without sun after we have been denied it by Sauron for so long.’ 

_‘Ah.’_

‘Aie,’ another miserable wail. 

Éothain, out the side of his mouth, ‘You really don’t do quiet when nervous, do you?’ 

‘Forgive me my jitteriness,’ Gríma snaps. ‘I didn’t exactly plan my life around dying by orc arrow atop the Deeping Wall in the midst of a filthy storm.’ 

‘What about glory?’ 

‘A cold comfort and never a strong, personal form of motivation.’ 

Éothain gives him a disparaging look. ‘If you and the elf don’t shut up I’m separating you.’ 

A roll of thunder descends onto the valley. It echoes off walls. Gríma thinks it vibrates his soul - or that could be the knife of fear twisting around. 

Over the rain comes the order to draw their bows. Then the order to release. Then, fire at will. 

With the storm and the night it is almost impossible to see if they hit their targets. But the orcs are so thick, what matters if your aim is true? Gríma thinks it’s a bit like spearing fish in a barrel, if the barrel were small and full of many fish. You’re bound to hit something. 

Arrows form a deluge down onto the orcs and swaths are fired back. They whistle over the battlements, hit rock, armor, a well-padded Éothéod who hollers: ‘You could prick me out as a porcupine and I’d still be able to quaff my mead.’ 

To which an orc hollers back: ‘I’ll shove your mead horn so far down your throat it’ll come out the back end, straw head.’ 

Gríma to Éothain, ‘I didn’t realize shouting insults was such a key part of battle.’ 

Éothain to Gríma, ‘You’ve never truly lived until you’ve exchanged witty words with someone over arrow-fire.’ 

‘I was plenty alive prior to this.’ 

‘It gets the blood flowing, doesn’t it? We’ll make a soldier out of you yet.’ 

Gríma sneers but says naught. Shoots an orc. Is glad for the darkness so he can’t see the entirety of the doom that lay before them. 

Grappling hooks. They fling up and catch hold of the wall. The first one is dispatched by Legolas with swift knife work. But another quickly takes its place, then another, another - siege ladders quickly follow and in the flashes of lightning Gríma watches, horrified, as legions of uruks rise up with the ladders. Oh, arrows may kill one here, one there, but the ladders are here. The forlorn hope of the advanced guard is upon them. 

He freezes. 

Where there had been order in the volleys of arrows, there is none now. Orcs and Dunlanders bear down over the wall, easily slicing past those before them. Legolas is busy with silver knives and Éothain has moved further down the wall, replacing fallen men. Gríma manages to move, to take a faltering step back. Then, seeing a moment when all are occupied, he turns and runs down wall steps, across field, to the dark safety of a rocky crevice near the entrance to the caves.

Pressing himself into the corner, he closes eyes, breathes out. Opening them, the battle still rages. Éomer’s men are managing to hold the wall - but only just. Gods, he really can’t do this. Look at those monstrous uruks. A single swipe and a man is down. A good man, a trained man. Not someone like Gríma. 

Teeth clench, jaw hurts. He becomes aware of his rapid breath that could be called heaving. What should happen if Éothain notices he ran and he survives to tell Éomer? Nothing good. 

Well, it can’t lower him anymore in Éomer’s general estimation. The shame of leaving one’s companions at the last gasp is one that will haunt you to death and well into the afterlife. But, he is a coward, even Saruman knew that. Even when he was a child that particular moral failing was evident. 

He holds his breath. Tries to calm himself. Everything is cold how the river Isen is cold how the Limlight is cold how rain in September is cold on the open plains and there are nine black horses following you — 

He gropes the rock for something to hold onto. He is terrified of what will happen before death more so than what will happen after.

How did it come to this? 

Blinding light. The sound comes after. Loud crack of an explosion as chunks of the Deeping Wall whip through air. Crash against mountain face. Rock meeting the hardness of rock. Men scream, fly across the land. Orcs snarl and eagerly prowl through the blasted opening in the wall-face. 

Hunching down, Gríma clutches his sword close, and begs whoever is watching this to end it all right now. Make it stop and go away. He will do anything wanted, anything asked, if only the battle stops. If only it ends and they all live. 

A shout brings him stumbling back into the present. It’s Éomer shouting, _Fall back. Fall back to the caves._

Gríma can’t move. 

Men run past and none note him. He thinks he might just remain frozen to this cliff face for the remainder of his days. And gods he wants to move. He wants to run for the caves. But there are orcs out there and if he does run he will be seen and he will die. 

At the back of the Éothéod making for the cave is Éomer who pauses to allow two of his men plus the ranger-king to go past towards relative safety. In his pause an orc comes towards him but is cut down with magnificent speed. 

Éomer turns to join the others but as he does, another orc reaches forward and grabs his shoulder. Éomer partially spins, falls, lands on his back with sword clattering out of hand. 

Gríma stares. He could run and make it to the caves, he could run forward and die. The risk assessment is not in Éomer’s favour. But he’s running forward anyway, as all this plays out in his head. He is split in half. One part is running, the other is saying: _this doesn’t work out in terms of odds_ . The part that is running forward, towards Éomer who is scrambling for is sword, says: _Saruman always loved a good cost-benefit analysis and_ fuck _Saruman._ Besides, off chance this is successful, it can be a favour called on in the future. A not inconsiderable thing in the politics of Edoras. 

He swings sword out to block the orc’s blade. Gríma’s arms shudder at the impact. Éomer’s face is shock but he’s getting his sword, he’s getting up. Another hit from the orc and Gríma loses grips of his sword. The orc blade comes back up and slices open Gríma’s hand. 

Frozen, he stares at the blood and the open flesh. But it is only a second for Éomer is grabbing him, snarling, _run._ They make a mad sprint for the caves. 

The orc is right behind them, then a whistle. A brush of something by Gríma’s head. Looking over his shoulder he sees the orc topples over with an arrow jutting out from his eye. He gapes at the dead, hugging his bleeding hand to chest. A hand on his shoulder, oh the ranger-king, and Gríma is pulled into the caves. 

‘Barricade the entrance,’ Éomer snaps. ‘These wooden doors won’t hold for long but we’ll do what we can.’ 

Gríma pulls free from the ranger-king’s grip, walks past Éomer, past Éothain, past Legolas, past the porcupine archer who is plucking out arrows lodged in his mail and the multiple layers of quilting beneath it. 

Someone stops him. ‘Where are you going?’ 

Grims twists around to find Éomer’s suspicious face. Taking a step backwards, Gríma half-crab walks away from the melee until he bumps up against cave wall. Slick calcite. A torch hisses in the damp. 

‘I can’t do this.’ Once said he can’t stop. A monotone repeat: _I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this —_

‘There’s no choice,’ Éomer hisses. ‘And you will do this. Because I’m not losing good men while you hide.’ 

‘I can’t do this. I can’t do this—’ 

‘You’ve already been doing it, so you can keep doing it.’ 

Someone yells, the ranger-king Gríma thinks with distraction, ‘They’re coming in fast, Éomer. We need more wood and men.’ 

Éomer’s hand again on Gríma’s arm as a vice, a warm, somewhat grounding one, though. Halfway through a ‘I can’t do this’ Gríma stops. Everything becomes fields in his head. The open, northern Eastfold, then further east into the borders of Emyn Muil where the grass is so tall a man on horseback can’t see over it. 

When he was a boy, his father would sometimes take him to run the horses down to Baldershead which sits in the middle of the Eastfold, in the middle of all that grass. It’s another world when you’re standing within it. Breathing slowly, softly, everything smelling so sweet. The light filters in pale green. He could hide in that world forever. 

Éomer is speaking, Gríma thinks dimly. His mouth is moving, but Gríma can’t hear him. Instead, he presses both palms against the cave wall to feel something cold and hard. His sliced open hand stings.

A sharp breath in. Pine. A shaky breath out. The world softens about the edges. They blur and fade out, like water spilling across paint. Gríma thinks about the ocean of Éomarc, the only ocean he’s ever liked. And that sky. Biggest sky in the world. 

His palm burns. It crawls up his arm. His neck hurts, his shoulders are knots. 

Éomer has gone. Gríma thinks maybe the ranger-king came for him. He thinks about how things manage to sometimes grow in desolate spots. Like the Fields of Celebrant after rainfall, there are small flowers that come out from trees you thought dead. They are bright red and yellow and smell like rotting corpses. 

Éomer returns. But he doesn’t come close, how he usually does. He stands away, visibly pale. Gríma can hear him now, ‘Whatever you’re doing you need to stop.’ 

Gríma can’t speak. It doesn’t matter anyway, for he doesn’t know what Éomer’s talking about. So he has nothing to say. He manages to shake his head. 

Éomer again, ‘You need to stop. I don’t know how you’re doing this, or what is happening, but you need to stop.’ A glance over his shoulder. 

Another waft of pine scented air. Also, ash and elm. Gríma sucks a breath in. It’s Fangorn on an autumn day when the needles are dropping and the pinecones are sticky with sap so you pick them up to burn in a bonfire and your fingers become stuck together, not even water washes it off. 

The ranger-king appears in his line of vision, saying something to Éomer. Then Legolas materializes. He says not a word. Runs a calculating eye over the entire situation then reaches forward and detaches Gríma’s bloodied hand from cave wall. 

Gríma blinks. The world shunts back into focus. It no longer feels like he is beneath water looking up for how distorted things had become. He holds his palm against his stomach so wool soaks what blood is still oozing out. 

‘What was that?’ Éomer snaps.

Gima stares forward which means he’s staring at Éomer’s brooch holding his cloak on. It’s uneven. 

The ranger-king, ‘I think it’s stopped.’ 

The cave is bereft of sound. No battle. No orcs. No swords. No shouts. 

Everything is very uneven. Gríma wants to sit down but supposes that wouldn’t be well received. 

‘Well?’ Éomer asks again. 

‘I don’t know,’ Gríma whispers. ‘I think I panicked.’ 

Éomer peers at him. Looks down to the palm against stomach, to the side where it rested against rock and calcite. Without a word, Éomer peels Gríma from the wall and steers him towards the makeshift barricade. Instead of wooden tables, doors from other rooms, planks, boards - anything to reinforce the gates - there is a tangle of roots. Roots and grass. It seals off the entire entrance and even crawls into part of the smith, collapsing roof and ruining the forge. Within it are trapped orcs, one or two of Éomer’s men as well. 

Gríma opens and closes his mouth a few times. ‘Who did this? Gandalf?’ 

Éomer lifts an eyebrow. ‘He’s not here. As resident worker of galdorcræft I thought you might have an idea.’ 

‘None.’ He cannot remove eyes from the roots that form interlocking designs through which tall grasses are woven. ‘I didn’t do this, if that’s what you’re asking.’ 

Éomer’s sidelong glance of disbelief but the Third Marshal doesn’t comment. Going to the ranger-king he says, ‘Have someone send word to my uncle that we’re all fine down here.’ 

Gríma turns around, walks past them and back to where he had stood and slowly slides to the floor. He watches Legolas inspect the sudden growth with keen interest. The elf cheerfully says, ‘It is elm, I do believe, Aragorn. And ash.’ The grass is self-evident. 

‘Another riddle.’ The ranger-king joins his friend, staring up at the root work. Then he twists to give Gríma a contemplative stare. Éomer joins the ranger-king and they bow heads to discuss something in low tones. 

Disengaging from the conversation, the elf trots over to Gríma and holds out a flask. 

‘For your hand.’ 

Gríma takes it with thanks. Tugging it open he gives it a sniff, some sort of strong alcohol, then takes a swig before pouring some onto his palm, grimacing as it stings.

‘What are they concerned about?’ He hands the flask back. 

Legolas rocks back on his heels, takes a drink. ‘It is something I do not have an answer for. But I am young, by my people’s count, and so have not seen as much of the world as others. It is a riddle.’ 

‘I do like a riddle.’ 

‘Riddles are good things to enjoy. We are made of riddles, us Four Hunters.’ 

‘I remember Lord Boromir telling me his before he went north.’ 

An appraising look. ‘And what did you make of it?’ 

‘Not much. But I’m like you, I have not perhaps seen as much of the world as others and so lack information that would provide some form of enlightenment. Look, my head is splitting.’ 

‘Two things could have rendered that work,’ Legolas says, ignoring him. ‘Both were present here in these caves. But I cannot tell which one did it.’ 

‘I’m clearly one, what’s the other thing?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ Then the elf laughs, sings a line in a language Gríma doesn’t understand, and departs to rejoin the ranger-king and Éomer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's Lord "If you and the elf don't shut up I'm turning the entire army around" Eothain on babysitting duty I see


	20. Dawn's Pleasant Arrival

The Hornburg will hold. There is no question of should or ought. It is only a matter of will. It will hold. Because there is no other option. Because if it doesn’t, the morning will not come and dawn always comes. 

Dawn will come. The eastern sky will light up and there will be hope. 

The main gates to the outer wall of the fortress shudder. The ancient wood groans. Orcs stream up the causeway to hammer into the doors with such fury. The battering ram knows no exhaustion and Saruman has formed a large enough force there will be no shortage of those willing and happy to pound away. 

Gamling orders men to reinforce the doors. He’s been yelling himself hoarse about this for hours now. He is a repetition of: _we need more wood; use tables; use benches; use anything and everything. More more more._

Háma catches Boromir’s eye, ‘When I said we were in for a long night at the start of it all, I didn’t quite realize how long.’ 

‘We’ll outlast them. I’m sure of it,’ Boromir says, clasping the man on the shoulder. ‘They can rend all they will, but the Hornburg’s never fallen, right? So long as there are men to defend it?’ 

‘So the skalds say.’ 

‘Well, we’re still here. Any news from Éomer?’ 

‘Nothing since the explosion.’ 

‘I’m to the king, have you anything to relay?’ 

Háma shakes his head. No, go and tell him the men are managing. Go and tell him the citadel will hold till dawn. And after dawn? We’re not there yet, so no point worrying. 

Boromir has a happy ability to step outside himself when in battle. That is to say, there is Boromir son of Denethor and there is the Captain of Gondor. Currently, he is the Captain and the Captain does not have time to worry about personal fears. The thought: _Aragorn could be blown to bits_ is one that guts him and he can’t be gutted. So he isn’t gutted. He steps outside himself and will be gutted later. Or he won’t be. There is no time for those thoughts in the now. He operates solely on the belief that everything will be fine. Because there is no other option. 

Dawn will come. 

Boromir weaves through the men hurrying back and forth, up and down off ramparts carrying arrows, rocks, slingshots, makings for oil and tar to boil and cascade over the edge onto those below. There is fervour in their actions, but clear orderliness. The balustrades are never left unmanned. The volleys of arrows shot down on their enemy continue unabated. Shifts change between those manning the doors and those manning the walls. 

Several men heft a cauldron up the steps. One grins at Boromir, ‘Going to make them squeal.’ When Gamling said, _If the enemy should come to bargain for our goods at Helm’s Gate, they will pay a high price,_ he was not speaking lightly. 

Théoden maintains his headquarters in the main hall amidst the clatter and clamour of men, mail and arms. The table is occupied with the map of the entire fortress covered in small pieces of wood. There are men scattered along the Deeping Wall; a red marker where the explosion was. 

‘Well?’ Théoden asks as Boromir arrives with a bow. ‘How fare the front gates?’ 

‘Holding for now, my lord. Háma bade me tell you that he thinks we will last till morning.’ He adds that thus far, the only blasting powder being used was that against the Deeping Wall, as predicted. Boromir hopes to the gods that Gríma was also right about Saruman’s pride, his disinclination to take advice. The little Boromir knows of the White Wizard makes him think this to be likely. But, he is not one to underestimate an enemy. In his experience it has only ever ended poorly.

‘Éomer?’ Boromir asks. The other lords present shift their weight, make little faces of _who knows_ and _gods._

‘No news yet,’ Cynric says. ‘We’re hoping that they’re holding the line. The blast wasn’t so big as to make the situation hopeless.’ 

‘If the enemy gets past the wall, what then?’ 

‘We hope they don’t make it into the caves.’ 

‘There are doors at that entrance, if I remember rightly.’ Boromir frowns, ‘Surely, if Éomer and his men pull back, they’ll be able to bar the gates.’ 

Théoden and Cynric exchange glances. The king, with grim expression, ‘They’re old. Our repairs focused on the outer walls, the first gates - they can bar them, yes.’ 

‘But they’ll not hold for long,’ Boromir finishes for the king. 

‘No, they’ll not. And once the enemy is in the caves, it will be hard work for us.’ 

What a mockery, Boromir thinks. This scene, it is a cruelty, that fate wishes to replay it over for him. Moria again. Minus troll and Balrog this time, though. Hopefully. 

Such thoughts are idle and to no purpose. It reminds him of the ring, when they rise up. The wave of hopelessness that ate through him all those weeks and months. So he pushes Moria away. Pushes Mithrandir’s fall away. All the dead left to rot. Osgiliath and Minas Tirith echoed in the desolation of that once great kingdom. 

(And Amon Hen was how long ago? A week and a half? Two weeks? Playing a quick game of tarocchi in a quiet moment before they rode out from Edoras Aragorn said, _It takes time._ And Boromir said, _That’s terrible. It’s gone, everything should be better._ To which Aragorn replied, _For me the ring just made manifest what already existed in my head. So, I suppose it’s only natural it doesn’t go away since it was always there to begin with._ Entirely too sensible of a response. Boromir said, _Yes, well --_ but Aragorn interrupted with, _There was a moment in Moria where I was sorely tempted. It’s what made me realize I would have to let Frodo go on alone, at least without me. Because I wouldn’t have made it._ ) 

Gimli comes into the main hall followed by an exhausted Gundahar. The young man slumps against a pillar and says something to another who laughs. Boromir thinks he can guess the substance of their brief chat as _I need a drink_ is a truly universal exchange.

Before the king, Gimli bows before asking the perpetually asked question: News from Lord Éomer? 

No, nothing. Nothing? No indication of who has fallen? Boromir continues to not think about that and thinks Gimli should take his way of being and also not think about it. 

Théoden rubs a hand over his eyes. ‘Had I known Isengard’s strength to be this much, I’m not sure I’d have rushed out to meet them so soon.’ 

The other lords do not reply. A few looks of, _Yes, well. Who was to know?_ So Boromir echoes that aloud, ‘No one was to know, my lord. Even Gríma said Saruman was unpredictable - that he was moving fast and hard and that he took steps wholly unexpected.’ 

‘It’s an avalanche,’ Théoden says. ‘How they wash over our people. Bury us all in warfare and strife. And what can we do? What can anyone do against such reckless hate?’ 

‘Outlast it,’ Gimli says. ‘Survive it. I firmly believe our survival in and of itself is an act of defiance. Is a big, rude gesture in the face of the Dark Lord. Our holding on to hope is a form of resistance. A small one, perhaps, but not nothing. He wants us to lose hope. He wants us to give up and give in to apathy and despair. For it is into such voids that he creeps, like a termite, to undermine foundations.’

‘And if hope is lost?’ Théoden asks. 

‘It’s not. It never is.’ Gimli pauses, makes an face of understanding. ‘I know it’s hard, sometimes, to see that. Gods, I know I lose sight of it at times. I know it can seemingly disappear; or it can seem like too small a thing to care about, to hold onto, against the hugeness of hate and violence. But we can’t deny ourselves permission to hope, because if we do that for too long we’ll forget how to hope in the first place. And then, without that, we are lost.’ 

What mournful smile from Théoden. What weight on his shoulders as he leans on the table, palms resting flat, gaze dropping from Gimli and Boromir to the outline of Helm’s Deep. 

‘I’ve come to believe that the cruelty is the point,’ Boromir says. ‘For Saruman and Sauron - people like them, those who support them. And it is senseless, it is reckless. There’s a sort of joy in destruction, in causing loss and pain.’

‘It’s all of that,’ Gimli agrees, hefting up his axe and putting helmet back on. ‘And their acts pile up so you can’t count them any more. My aunt used to keep a tally of the outrageous things Sauron and his ilk committed but she had to give up because there are too many. As for hope. To give that up is to give up the war entirely and I, for one, am not ready to do that. There is too much of this world that I love, too many in this world that I love, and if I can help in some way then, by the Gods, I will.’

Back out on the outer walls Boromir rests behind a crenelation on the balustrade, with back against stone watching arrows whistle past to hit wall, clatter onto the floor. Some skitter along before being picked up by the soldiers to be used against their own makers. 

‘An eloquent speech,’ Boromir says, running whetstone over his knife. There are ladders coming, they can see them being hauled towards the Hornburg, so knife work will be upon them. ‘I admire your gift for the spoken word.’ 

Gimli dismisses this with a wave. ‘Oration is well prized. We’re taught from a young age how to speak with intention and poise. And my people know well what it is to face senseless hate. Anyone who has been forced from their home knows it, I think. Anyone who has been forced to wander and try and make a new home in foreign lands amongst people who might not understand them.’ 

‘That must be hard.’ 

‘Sure. It is. But there’s also joy and laughter and strength amidst the sorrow. Let’s not define ourselves purely by our suffering. It’s - oh, what’s the word in Westron?’ He pauses to mutter to himself. 

‘Reductive?’ Boromir offers. 

Gimli snaps his fingers. ‘Reductive, that’s it. Anyway, I think the odds are in our favour.’ 

_‘Really?_ ’ 

‘Eh, we survived Moria. We can surely survive a few measly orcs. Our Company does dicey odds well.’ 

Boromir laughs, loud. It catches the attention of Háma who, passing by with a bench to add to the doors, shouts up: ‘Care to share the laugh? I could use one right now.’ 

‘Gimli believes the odds are in our favour. Says we’ve survived worse.’ 

‘We have,’ Gimli shrugs. 

Háma grins. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re with us, then. Your luck spirits will more than compensate for our lack of numbers.’ 

‘Luck spirits?’ Gimli asks. 

‘You know, luck spirits. We’re all born with one, they live inside you along with your ancestor spirit and your own self. You and your friends clearly have powerful ones.’ 

Boromir makes a noise of interest. Says he rather likes the idea that everyone is born with a little spirit of luck inside them. It’s a comfort. Háma waves, tells them to keep safe, and continues on to the front gates. 

‘Look.’ Gimli slides down to sit next to Boromir. They watch a volley of arrows arch over the crenelations and into the space below. Gimli says it again, ‘Look. If things go belly-up here. If I die-’ 

‘No one’s dying,’ Boromir states. 

‘If I die, can you do two things? The first, convey my axe, helmet and ring to my father and mother.’ 

‘Of course. But you’re not dying.’ 

‘The second, I’ve a necklace,’ he tugs up a thin gold chain with a pendant at the end. Circular, it is stamped with intricate designs. Around the edge is an inscription in Khuzdul. ‘Make sure the elf gets it. And tell him that I am sorry for the harsh words spoken the other day.’ 

Boromir solemnly swears to undertake these things. Should Gimli die. Which he isn’t. Because Boromir has decided that the Four Hunters will not die. 

Down the battlements are the sounds of boiling oil pouring down on the orcs and men below. Screams, loud and long, crawl up the walls. 

Boromir thinks through Gimli’s requests with some deliberation. He supposes there shouldn’t be surprise on his part. He is certain Aragorn would look at him with a face: _You’ve just arrived at this conclusion?_ But, because he is a man who requires repeated confirmations, he says, ‘I didn’t realize you were so close.’

Gimli blinks. ‘Well, yes.’ 

Boromir stares at him as he sharpens his axe. Occasionally the dwarf pauses to take up a rock and, twisting around, chucks it blind over the wall. A yelp confirms he hit someone. Looking at his friend Gimli snorts. ‘Your expression is one of deep confusion.’ 

‘I’m working something out.’ 

‘My father won’t be best pleased. Neither will his. But what did Aragorn say? May we all live to become horrors to our fathers.’ 

‘Right.’ Boromir nods. He becomes uncertain of how to proceed. In Gondor there is your duty and what you do on the side. There is your lady wife and there is your mistress, or lover, or whatever. What you get up to in your own time is your own business and no one much cares, provided you do your duty by your family. But when your activities on the side are with someone of the same gender there is no model for that conversation. So you simply don’t talk about it. Not that there is shame, the way there seems to be in Rohan, it’s more that it’s considered irrelevant. Because it’s not related to your duty, your place in society, your occupation, your family, your patron - all the important parts of who you are as a person. It’s irrelevant. And so there is no existing formula or language for talking about it with others. 

Which is utter bollocks, to Boromir’s mind, but there’s little anyone can do about it. 

Indeed, Boromir knows what Faramir gets up to in his own time, who he goes and falls hopelessly in love with, for it’s (usually older) women and they are able to talk about it. Often at great length, as Faramir tends to wax poetic. Yet, for his own follies and foibles in that department, he presumes Faramir knows, but they’ve never discussed it.

So he tries: ‘Um, when did it, uh, this occur?’ 

‘I don’t know. It’s been rather slow going.’ 

‘Because in Lothlórien you two were ready to declare war.’ 

‘Ah,’ Gimli holds up a finger. ‘Only at the outset. I told you we came to better understand each other while there.’ 

The dim memory resurfaces. On yes, they did do a lot of disappearing together. His recollections of Lothlórien are shrouded by the ring, a sort of mental fog that descended after Moria that he still can’t shake entirely. 

‘You were a bit distracted,’ Gimli says with kindness. 

‘You’re a far better friend to me than I’ve been to you.’ 

‘These things come in waves.’ Gimli returns to his axe. ‘You were the only one who asked me about Balin after Moria.’ 

‘I’m sorry. Truly. I’ve been rather self-absorbed.’ 

‘Ah, no need to apologize.’ 

Boromir frowns. No, please, he should. He promises to do better which Gimli accepts while saying, ‘Really, thank you, but it’s not necessary. It’s alright. It’s all alright.’ 

‘So,’ Boromir starts as another volley of arrows clatter against rock. ‘What was the argument about?’ 

‘Something and nothing. I might have been rude about his father. I mean, what I said was _true,_ but I oughtn’t have said it how I did.’ 

Boromir, deathly curious, ‘May I ask what it was?’ 

‘I may have called Thranduil a prick.’ 

Boromir stares. Then laughs, head tilting back laughter because _what_ a priceless image that produces. Gimli grins. ‘I maintain it’s true. You should hear my father on the subject of the elf-king. But perhaps I should have phrased it differently.’ 

‘Or not said it at all.’ 

‘Or that.’ 

‘I know my father is what one would call _a piece of work_ but only Faramir and I are allowed to be rude about him.’ 

‘Fair enough,’ Gimli agrees. ‘My family has a tendency to be blunt with those we care about. Sometimes to a fault. I suspect it’s a trait that doesn’t always translate well.’ 

‘Elves, and those raised by them, do seem delicate about certain subjects.’ 

‘Not even half of it,’ Gimli mutters before suddenly ruffling Boromir’s hair. ‘I’m glad we talked. It’s been an age since we’ve had a good conversation.’ 

‘We pick our moments well.’ 

Gimli shrugs. Orcs knocking at the door, what else is new? ‘Anyway, how long till dawn?’ 

‘No idea.’ 

‘Go take a wee peak.’ 

Boromir pulls a face but stands and slides around the balustrade to peer out at the masses. The world remains in night. But the rain has ended and the eastern sky is beginning to show some hints that day will be upon them. 

An orc jeers up, ‘It’s Lord Boromir of Gondor. Come to treat with us?’ 

‘Hardly, I came for fresh air and to see the dawn.’ 

‘And what of dawn? We’re not deterred by daylight. Come, it’s best you make surrender and bring us the king.’ 

‘The king stays or comes of his own accord. He has no keeper.’ 

‘Tell him that we’ll fetch him from his bolthole if he doesn’t come willingly. Better he do so of his own volition.’ 

Boromir thinks there to be several thousand strong before the fortress-proper which means another several thousand are at the wall, minus whatever was lost on the dykes. 

A worrying number.

‘You do know the Hornburg’s never fallen, right?’ Boromir calls down. ‘Your master has sent you on an impossible task. What’s more, he’s not here with you. What sort of lord would send his men into a danger he would not willingly face himself? Get you gone and find a better man to serve.’ 

He pulls back behind the stone as another volley is sent up. 

‘No dying,’ Gimli says. ‘Remember that rule. What would I tell your brother?’ 

‘That my wit got me killed. He’ll think well of it.’ 

Gimli smacks Boromir’s arm, pulls an exasperated face, declaring, ‘That is not the point.’ 

A sudden roar. A crack. Wood splinters and iron wrenches from walls. 

The ground shakes. 

There are drums. 

Grabbing Gimli Boromir runs down the walls to see the great gates of the outer wall shattered. Those still standing try to close ruined doors but it is a lost cause. Orcs and Dunlanders pour through the opening as blood out a wound. Darting towards the doors, Boromir and Gimli haul up stunned men from where the blast threw them. _Get into the keep. Into the keep, this is lost to us._

Heading for the ruined doors Boromir watches an Uruk grab Háma, sneer into the old man’s face, then throw him to the ground. A mad scramble but Háma manages to pull up his sword and block the orc’s blade. 

A second swipe from the Uruk comes as Boromir runs over, throwing himself at the orc, bringing both to the ground with a crash. 

But the fall is not in time. The blade is in Háma’s neck then it’s out of Háma’s neck and there is blood. It is over breastplate and stains the rich tunic collar and mantel. In seconds, Háma is dead. He lies still with eyes open, staring up to darkened sky that was only just beginning to see the tendrils of the sun’s light. 

Boromir makes quick work of the Uruk and, grabbing Háma by his arms, pulls him into the keep. Doors slam shut behind him. 

Maneuvering Háma to rest against a wall Boromir places his sword upon his chest. Hanging above the dead man is a tapestry of the host of the Rohirrim riding down a steep embankment. They are pricked out in gold and silver. Their shields and helms gleam in fire light. 

Boromir closes Háma’s eyes. 

Standing he catches the king’s eye. For one, brief moment Théoden is just a man and he is made of anguish. He takes a half-step forward, stops, adjusts himself. He becomes again a king. 

‘The outer wall is taken,’ Boromir says, coming up to Théoden. ‘What next? How are the caves?’ 

‘Reinforced, apparently. Éomer sent word that they’re fully secure.’ 

‘Good, that’s something.’ 

Théoden swallows, nods. Blinks past Boromir to the hall doors that tremble with each blow of the battering ram. Shrieks of glee from orcs pierce the thick wood. These are sturdy, well-made doors. They are hard, thick and were created to last. But just as all things have a beginning they too have an ending. 

‘Did he die well?’ Théoden asks in a whisper. 

‘He did. With sword in hand.’ 

‘We knew each other as boys. He was a page in my father’s household.’ He shakes his head. ‘Things that once seemed so certain, so secure -- Gods, how the world changes. I sometimes feel all I’m doing is galloping in order to try and stay in the same place.’ 

‘That’s what they want isn’t it, my lord?’ Cynric asks. ‘To wear us down. And speaking of that, what are we to do now? Certainly the end is near.’ 

Théoden’s jaw tightens. He continues to stare at the doors, his men, their desperate attempts to secure what can be secured. Háma is not the only dead man lining the room. The fire has burned low and the cool air of late night, early morning settles in. 

‘I will not have us die in a foxhole,’ Théoden says, quietly but with such cold conviction is chills. ‘I will not have us go quietly nor tamely. We are a wild people, a free people, and we will die as such. At dawn we will ride forth and the horn of Helm Hammerhand will sound in the deep one last time.’ 

Horses are brought out from the temporary stables and readied for battle. Théoden sends word to Éomer that he and his men are to hold the fortress as the king sallies out. They are only to join if able and if it seems the right move to make.

‘Will you ride with me?’ Théoden asks with a low voice. He and Boromir stand by the low fire. Though small, flames still glint off Snowmane’s harness, breastplate, nose guard. 

Will he ride with the king?

Torn in half, Boromir knows the honourable thing to do, and that is to ride. He also knows the dutiful thing to do for his people, and that is to not ride, is to survive and return home. 

Gods, what a question. 

Aragorn’s answer would be a resounding yes. Boromir knows, or wants to believe, Aragorn wouldn’t think less of him for standing down. But what would he think of himself? 

Shame. He would be ashamed. 

‘Yes,’ Boromir says. ‘I will ride with you.’ 

Théoden’s wry smile. ‘Gondor coming to Éomarc’s aid,’ half-hummed. ‘Quite fitting in this upside down world. Éomer described it to me as every day being a day of Misrule.’ 

‘How aptly put,’ Boromir replies. 

And, he supposes, if all days are days of Misrule, and if the world is truly turned upon itself, then surely dying is transformed into living. To ride out, to fight, despite knowing that death stalks through the ranks - that must surely be the ultimate, exultant act dedicated to the joy of being alive. 

The horn of Helm Hammerhand makes the world tremble. It echoes through the Hornburg, upwards into the Deeping Coombe, backwards into the Veil. It winds its way into the heart of the caves themselves. The bones of the mountains feel its music. 

And the suddenness of the sound. The unrelenting call, makes the orcs pause, even causes some to flee. It is a brief moment, yes, but it is still long enough for Théoden and his riders to carve their way down the causeway. 

Once off the causeway they form a line stretching out into the Bay and ride through the orcs, the Dunlanders, as a wave of horse and spear and shield and cold steel of keen blades. 

As they near the dyke, Théoden gives the sign for the men to go about with the intent to come crashing back down against their enemy. Théoden raises his spear in the air, the tip glints, bloodied, in rising sun. Night has departed. And the sky blooms gold and red and the grass of the Coomb is green - the colours of the House of Eorl fan out across the world. 

Boromir breathes in deep, oh yes the smell of battle, it’s rancid presence cannot be escaped, but behind it, on the wind, is spring. New growth. Fresh grass. And, behind that, trees. All pine and birch and ash and oak and elm. 

A cry goes up before the ride back can begin. A silver horn calling out in morning air. Everyone looks about, twists around in saddles to see its source. There, above them upon an incline that slopes into the Coombe, is a figure silhouetted with rising sun. 

It is Mithrandir and with him Erkenbrand and his men. 

The newly arrived riders raise their spears, their swords and moving as a single unit swoop down on the orcs. Singing, they descend as a wall of death. 

At the same time, from the opening of the Deep Wall, rides out Éomer and his men with whoops, cheers and hollers. Boromir squints, looks for Aragorn and Legolas and, catching sight of both, breathes a sigh of relief. The Four Hunters still stand. 

It doesn’t take long to fully route the remainder of the orcs. They flee like smoke driven out by mountain wind. The Dunlanders begin to flee as well but, partway up the Coombe, they stop, turn about and return to the Rohirrim. Dropping their weapons in a heap upon the ground before Théoden and Mithrandir they kneel in surrender.

Boromir turns to look up the Coombe, in the initial direction of their flight, and sees that at the mouth of Coomb the earth alters. No longer does the narrow pass spill out to plains and the wide open grasses of the Westfold. No, now there are trees. A dark and gnarled forest has sprung up from nothing. Boromir’s mouth drops open. Théoden follows suit. Other riders as well, their shock and fear maring previously cheerful faces. 

Boromir, ‘That forest wasn’t there last night.’ 

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Mithrandir answers, riding over with a smile of victory. ‘And I doubt any who went in will make it out.’ 

‘Was this you?’ Théoden asks in wonder. 

‘No, it’s no work of mine. This is something far older. A power that walked this earth before any elf sang or dwarf hammered.’ He chews over a thought before quoting, ‘ _Ere iron was found or tree was hewn, when young was mountain under moon; ere ring was made, or wrought was woe, it walked the forests long ago._ ’ 

‘Gods,’ Théoden snorts. ‘Of course. You arrive at the last minute with much needed aid and a riddle. It seems to be your signature.’ 

‘Another to add to our ever growing collection,’ Aragorn happily says, riding up to Boromir. Looking him over Aragorn nods to himself. ‘You appear unhurt.’ 

‘A bit bruised. I tackled an orc.’ 

‘Of course you did.’ 

‘And you are not hurt?’ 

‘No,’ Aragorn smiles a strange smile. ‘We were well looked after.’ 

A look to Éomer sees the horselord staring at the forest with a mix of horror and awe. Mouth agape, not unlike a fish. Twisting around, Éomer shoots a glare at Gríma who Boromir can see evidently attempting to hide behind Grimbold.

Éomer holds up a finger. 

Gríma promptly swears up and down that he knows nothing of this. He had nothing to do with it. Why won’t Lord Éomer believe him? He can do hat tricks. This isn’t that. Didn’t Lord Éomer hear Gandalf? Older than trees and iron. It’s not him. He knows nothing about this. He continues on, but now in Rohirric. 

Boromir, ‘Care to explain?’ 

Aragorn, ‘Better you see it for yourself.’ 

In the midst of this, Legolas approaches. ‘I have searched about. Did Gimli not ride with you?’ 

‘Oh, uh, no,’ Boromir’s brain tacks back to the present moment from the mystery of the forest. ‘He and Gamling stayed to hold the keep.’ 

‘But he is unharmed?’ 

‘When I left he was whole and hearty.’ 

Legolas stares with unmoving face. ‘When you left?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘So you cannot say for certain.’ 

(Aragorn, in an aside: _He’s been like this all night._ ) 

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Boromir reassures the elf. ‘He was up to forty orcs, by the by. He bade me tell you that.’ 

Legolas’ face transforms into pure smugness, a feat Boromir had not witnessed before. ‘La, son of Glóin is only at forty. I have forty-one.’ 

Aragorn, in another aside: _Gods preserve us from dwarves and elves._

Théoden and Mithrandir lead the way back to the Hornburg, followed by Éomer, Erkenbrand, Cynric, and three of the Four Hunters. 

Snatches of conversation between Théoden and Mithrandir can be heard over the general noise of battle weary but excited soldiers. 

Théoden, ‘I can’t ride out now. My men need rest. How long can you wait?’ 

‘Nightfall,’ Mithrandir replies. ‘But it’s just as well we travel by darkness. Sauron has been disturbed. I felt it last night and first thought it to be the trees, or Saruman up to foul business, but it was neither.’ 

‘What are you saying?’ 

‘Someone, or something, has attracted Sauron’s attention. I believe that he is turning his focus and energy onto Gondor and Rohan with greater intensity than ever before. I sense an urgency from him that was not previously present.’

Théoden frowns. ‘I would that you speak plainly.’ 

‘I would that I knew the answers. But it’s best we wait to take private counsel.’ 

Théoden accepts this with contentment and goes on to make inquiries about Mithrandir’s travels. All he saw as he went to fetch Erkenbrand. Boromir half-listens as he watches Éomer’s face darken followed by another cursory glance back to Gríma who rides towards the middle of the gathered retinues. Aragorn through the exchange remains thoughtful, as does Legolas. 

‘What exactly happened in the caves?’ Boromir asks. 

Aragorn leans in, head tilted so he’s half-whispering to Boromir’s shoulder. ‘A thing I’ve never seen before.’ 

‘Which is?’ 

‘There was something in the shadows of the caves. It had no face.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please forgive the shameless, thinly veiled allusions to present concerns and issues that impact at least some of my readers.


	21. Councils with Kings and Wizards

Gríma is not shown Háma’s body. Like a toothless cat who keeps returning to the barn, though he can contribute nothing, no one really knows what to do with him now that the battle is over. A state of affairs only exasperated by the trees. Which Gríma knows nothing about. 

So, after having his hand well-cleaned and well-stitched and well-smeared with honey and yellow nettle and well-bandaged, Gríma finds Háma’s body. It is between his third and fourth ale that he wanders across the hall to discover death stretched out on the floor, death’s face the colour of a milk-snake’s belly. 

There is the scarlet scarf of opened neck, the faded gold-silver of hair and beard, hidden brown of half-closed eyes. Gríma wonders if Théoden knows. Théoden must know. Someone will have told the king his companion since childhood summers is dead. Someone will have explained that the king will no more hear his friend’s voice or listen to his songs and laughter. He won’t be able to break his fast with dawn sky and say, ‘I had a rather ridiculous dream last night. Fetch Háma, he’ll find it amusing.’ 

Or, he can still say it but there will be no Háma to fetch. 

He is gone to earth and will not return. 

Draining his ale, Gríma refills the cup then moves to more closely examine Háma. The shield boss at the dead man’s throat is uneven so Gríma straightens it. A final fixing of the forever crooked metal. Háma once said: _I do not understand your peculiarity in this regard._ And Gríma had said, _There’s nothing to understand, save that uneven objects annoy me. Do they not annoy you?_

_Not particularly._

But, after this, Háma would occasionally adjust things if they weren’t aligned. Gríma would catch him fixing candles or benches in the hall, merely shrugging when Gríma frowned, uncertain if the big man was mocking him. 

It occurs to him now, looking at Háma’s dead face, that Háma was just being Háma. It occurs that he may have mispriced the man. It occurs that he may have mispriced a few other things as well. 

The hall becomes loud. It fills Gríma’s head and makes him nauseous. Also, it is too hot, too smokey, his neck feels as if it’s on fire, his eyes sting. 

After a last top-up of ale, he tucks the cup between arm and chest and, with his good hand, takes up a bowl of stew with bread seated on top then heads for the Deeping Wall. He moves as a ghost - at once seen and unseen. The dirty looks are at least something, proof that he is alive and existing in this world. Being unseen, unacknowledged, makes him wonder if he did die in the River Isen after all. Or, perhaps he is in a dream and, like a phantom, is destined to fade in and out of sight. What a miserable thing. 

The Deeping Wall is cool for a mountainous breeze gusts over him then out to the Coombe which remains lined with trees. A reminder that last night was real. Last night truly happened. And if last night is real, if last night happened, what does that mean? 

Awkwardly Gríma balances his stew on a crenelation that has had a chunk carved out making a small, somewhat flat divet. Standing, he attempts to eat with dignity. He isn’t sure he is successful. Leeks, tomatoes, various roots and is that a chestnut? It is a chestnut. He roots around for more and eats them first. 

Once finished, he sets the bowl next to his ale then slides down the rock wall and unfurls on the ground beside them. 

The midday clouds are thin sheets barely dining the sun. Wet seeps into clothes and hair. Oh joy, Gríma thinks, he is lying in a puddle. Which hadn’t been his intention but the world is a lot at the moment - bright, loud, thirsty, tactile, present - therefore he hadn’t paid much attention during his slow, unwinding descent. 

So, puddle. 

His eyes still sting when he thinks of Háma which means they haven’t stopped stinging since he hasn’t really stopped thinking of Háma. He swallows. Tries with great effort to think about nothing, but Háma’s corpse keeps interrupting. He thinks he might be a little drunk. Half-sitting up he finishes his ale then drops back down. 

The doors. The blasted doors. The blasted doors blasted open in the exact manner he had recommended to Saruman. And Háma died at the doors with an orc blade in his neck that might not have been in his neck had the doors not been blasted open.

Gríma wants for another drink. A blasted drink. He morosely smiles skyward. 

‘You.’ Ah. Éomer. 

‘Me,’ Gríma replies, tilting head to the side as Éomer’s shadow approaches only to be replaced by the man. 

‘My uncle and Gandalf wish to speak with you.’ 

‘And you have been reduced to messenger boy, my lord?’ 

Éomer makes a sneering sound. ‘Hardly. I volunteered.’ 

‘I’m honoured you wished for the pleasure of my company.’ 

‘Get up.’ Éomer walks off a few paces as Gríma pushes himself up. Water drips between cloth and skin and he knows most of his backside is soaked through. But, as he is still damp from the rain he hardly believes this to matter. 

Once up he collects cup and bowl with right hand, for his left is violently throbbing in pain, then trails after Éomer. 

Halfway along the wall towards the Hornburg Éomer stops. Spins on his heel, cloak flaring out. What a dramatic motion. Gríma’s internal monologue about the unnecessary theatrics cuts itself short when Éomer takes to peering at him with eyes that could pin a man down and dissect him with their intensity.

‘Háma is dead,’ Éomer says. 

Or doesn’t _say_ so much as drop the statement onto the floor between them. Gríma lowers his gaze to the stone, the scattered puddles, dead orcs and Dunlanders gathered off to the side in the bay. 

‘I know.’ 

‘He died defending the front gates.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘He was a good man.’ 

Gríma glumly nods. He wishes Éomer would stop talking about Háma. He is like a battering ram. Gríma is not so sturdily built as the Hornburg’s former front gates. 

‘He was one of the best,’ Éomer continues, relentless. ‘Did you know that this was to be his last war? He told Gwenyr that he was done after this, that he was going to spend more time at home with her and their grandchildren. He told me that last night before he took up his post. His last post.’ 

Gríma does not want to imagine Gwenyr’s grief but his mind conjures it regardless. 

‘My uncle hasn’t said a word about it.’ 

Which means he can’t, for Théoden’s deep grief is the silent kind. 

‘Say something.’ 

Gríma shrugs, if a bit helplessly. 

‘That’s not saying something.’ 

‘What would you have me say, my lord?’ 

‘Something.’ 

‘He was a good man.’ 

‘Yes. He was.’ 

A thought occurs and because Gríma does not want his lungs to continue hurting, as if bound by an iron ring, he asks: ‘Has Théoden spoken about Théodred?’ 

The marshal is visibly surprised and cocks his head to the side. ‘Yes, I believe so. But not to me.’ 

‘Ah.’

‘Oh don’t worry,’ Éomer pulls an ugly face. It is trying to be a sneer but there is just enough sadness for it to fail. ‘I’m aware the king most likely resents my living while Théodred died.’ 

‘I was implying nothing of the kind. I was merely curious.’ 

‘Yes you were. Keep your meddlesome fingers out of the family pot.’ 

Gríma flicks eyes up to meet Éomer’s. He knows it’s a hooded expression, one might even call it cunning. 

‘You never once thought about kingship, my lord? Even as your cousin got older and never sired children? A barren crown and scepter serve no one and with each passing year you inched closer to the throne.’ 

Éomer advances until he is a hair’s breadth away. With a low voice he hisses: ‘I am not power hungry, unlike some. I loved my cousin well and never once wished to play his part.’ 

Which is a ridiculously _very_ Éomer sentiment, because if Gríma were in his place it’d be all he thought about. How, when young, Gríma so desperately wanted to be Baldir or Owensel. Still does, to a certain degree. Or, rather, he wants to have what they have. He wants people to look at him how they look at Owensel. But Owensel took entirely after their father so is tall and blond with grass green eyes. They do share the sharp nose, pointed chin and cheekbones of their mother, though Owensel, unlike Gríma, manages to not look so cadaverous.

Anyway. Gríma does not understand Éomer’s disinclination to take power. Especially since the lord has this half-hazard, if somewhat flighty, approach to attempting to keep the world safe, secure, stable. It’s a quest for security but approached by someone who has too much energy and not enough reason to focus on one task for a long duration. Gríma assumes this all has to do with Éomund going off and dying after telling ten year old Éomer something like: _I’m leaving you in charge. You have to take care of your mother and sister and keep them safe while I’m gone._ Which is a terrible thing to tell your child when you’re about to go off and get hewn into pieces by an orc.

Then the mother died. 

Abruptly, in the midst of their strange silence, Éomer pulls back. He once again peers at Gríma, ‘Háma was always kind to you.’ 

‘He was, my lord.’ 

‘He offered you his hand.’ 

And Gríma spat at it, neither point out. 

What was the last thing Háma said to Gríma? He can’t remember. Something about wishing him luck and taking care. Or maybe it was one of his good-natured jokes, the sort kindly uncles tell. The last conversation that Gríma does remember had been in the temporary stables tucked away in the caves. Gríma had gone to see to Stigr and make sure the horse was tended to and Háma had been doing the same with his own. 

_Glad you saw sense,_ said Háma. 

_Yes,_ Gríma drew out the end of the word. 

Háma looked at Stigr then to Gríma. _That’s a Dunlander horse._

_My escape was not well planned._

_That isn’t like you. You always have a plan._

_I used to, that is true. It hasn’t been that way for some time now._

Háma nodded slowly. Then said, _I always knew there was some good in you. I’m glad it’s finding its way out, even if it’s doing so at a snail’s pace._

Then he patted Gríma’s arm and said, _I’m sorry about Sæwine. But know that whatever happened in the past, for my part, I’m glad you’re back._

‘He was a fool,’ Gríma says. But it’s with less poison than intended. Because his throat stopped working. So he turns away from Éomer and Éomer’s needle-point eyes and their continuous searching of Gríma’s face. That gaze is too much to hold at this moment. Whatever the man is looking for, Gríma is certain he won’t find it. 

He blinks furiously. Gods, won’t Éomer say something to fill this gaping hole of silence? 

‘He’d be proud that you sort-of pulled through the battle, despite your initial running away.’ 

Gríma swallows. That isn’t what he had in mind. Gríma swallows, again. Wants to call Háma a fool, again. But he can’t. Which he blames on the ale and exhaustion. It’s their fault that he is suddenly overwhelmed and unable to shove whatever he is feeling into the trunk that lives at the back of his head. The one he keeps firmly locked. 

And what is he feeling? He honestly has no idea. 

What are words for emotions? He has perhaps five. He suspects he could use a few more. 

‘Come on,’ Éomer taps his shoulder. ‘We should go. My uncle is waiting.’ 

Gríma nods but doesn’t turn around. He works his jaw. Focuses on his left hand because it is awash with fire and that allows him to think about something other than Háma. ‘I’ll be along in a moment,’ he manages, if a bit hoarse. 

‘All right,’ Éomer says. A long pause. Éomer’s eyes continue to borrow into the back of Gríma’s head. Softly, the horse lord speaks: ‘All right. I’ll tell him you’re on your way. Also, thank you for saving my life last night. It was unexpected, I will admit, but it was good of you.’ 

‘Can’t have a civil war for the throne,’ Gríma whispers. 

‘No,’ Gríma can hear Éomer’s wry smile, ‘we can’t. Not after all of this.’ 

Now, Éomer retreats back to the Hornburg. Once his footsteps are gone Gríma lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Where is that puddle of his? He thinks he should go back and lie in it some more. Sucking in air Gríma spins around, without the dramatics of Éomer, and marches back to the citadel. 

The king’s council is a somber affair compared to the revelry out in the hall. Here is Théoden looking tired, then a quiet Erkenbrand and unreadable Cynric. Even Éomer is exuding something of a subdued air. Others gathered are Lord Boromir, Legolas, the dwarf-prince and ranger-king. Also, Gamling and Ceorl are present and being grim. 

And then there’s Gandalf. 

Upon seeing the wizard that Gríma stops, requiring a prod from Gamling to continue walking into the room. He knew Gandalf would be there. Éomer said as much. But it is a strange shock to see him seated by Théoden in a chair Gríma once sat in. Resplendent in all white, the wizard is fearsome yet gentle. A grandfatherly sort of figure, to Gríma’s mind. But he doesn’t trust grandfatherly figures anymore. They tend to be riddled with poison.

Arriving at the table, Gríma bows low, apologizes for his tardiness, then waits for someone to speak. The chamber smells of wet wool and orc blood; metallic and musty in turns. 

‘Gandalf has some questions to put to you,’ Théoden says as a page brings Gríma a cup of wine. ‘I’m sure you can guess what they will be about.’ 

‘My lord,’ Gríma bows again. ‘I shall endeavour to answer as best I can.’ 

Théoden motions to a chair and Gríma perches at the edge, carefully holding the cup in his lap as if it were a talisman. 

Gandalf has sharp eyes that look at everything with purpose. They are cold mountain blue. But, with those he likes, can be the blue of a warm summer’s day. 

He clearly takes in Gríma’s current state of existence which makes Gríma’s cheeks burn for he is damp, muddy, smells foul, there’s possible orc blood across clothes and face, matted hair barely held together, bandaged hand that continues to hurt in a sharp, searing way whenever he moves. If he’s to be lectured by the wizard about the cave incident he wishes he were less disgusting and more impressive looking. 

‘I saw the roots at the cave entrance,’ Gandalf says. ‘That was well done.’ 

Gríma turns the cup in a circle in his lap. Thumb trailing along the soft ceramic lip.

‘How did you manage it?’ 

‘I don’t know, my lord.’ 

‘You don’t know?’ 

‘No, my lord. I’m not even sure I had anything to do with it.’ 

Gandalf’s peering look takes on a different intensity. From inspection to introspection. And there begins a nudging about the edge of Gríma’s mind. That old trick he knows well from Saruman. So, he thinks about the Wold. He thinks about this tree in a far field owned by the Thane. There was a hollowed out portion you could hide in which was made with lightning struck the tree and burned through the innards, leaving a but a husk of its former self. 

He thinks of how light works out in the fields of Éomarc. The way sunlight glints off the River Snowbourn when you look at it from Edoras. How mornings are dusty purples. How sunsets are golden reds. How the light in tall grasses is murky. How it changes when you delve into the southern marshes of the East Emnet. 

The probing stops. 

Gríma waits for a second advance, how Saruman would withdraw long enough for you to stop thinking about grass before shooting forward a deluge, a thunderous wave. Instead, Gandalf sits back in contemplation. 

‘How long have you been able to do this?’ 

‘Do what?’ Gríma asks. 

Gandalf gestures as if to say: _what we’ve discussed._ Then, aloud, ‘You’ve evidently had this skillset, shall we call it, for at a minimum three years. But I’m curious, did you have it before your employ to Saruman?’ 

Gríma shrugs. 

Éomer gives him a look then says to Gandalf, ‘Yes. There’s the fire thing.’ He wiggles his fingers. Gríma thinks this a demeaning impression of how he lights candles. 

Gandalf, ‘Fire thing?’ 

Gríma shrugs again. 

‘Remaining mute aids no one, least of all yourself.’ 

Éomer, far too helpfully, ‘He can light wicks and kindling.’ 

Why must the bane of Gríma’s existence be this man? 

Éomer blithely continues, ‘It’s his galdorcræft. Fire and the persuasion trick.’ 

Gandalf nods. Yes, yes, they all know about the persuasion trick. Gríma glances down the table at Théoden who appears both present and one hundred leagues away. He wants to snap at Gandalf that he should get to the point. Set both him and the king free from this conversation and all the memories it dredges up. 

‘I ask again, how long?’ 

‘Since I was fourteen,’ Gríma sighs. ‘Give or take a year.’ 

‘And how did you come by it?’ 

‘I asked for it.’ 

‘From who?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ 

Éomer’s eyes widen a fraction, he goes to say something but stops himself. 

Gandalf, ‘Do you know how you do things?’ 

‘No. I know how to make things like fire happen, but I don’t understand the mechanism.’ 

A slow hum from the wizard. So, no one taught him anything? No. So, he’s just been doing things without understanding what the repercussions could be? 

‘I know how it affects me,’ Gríma snaps. ‘And nothing bad has happened, unintentionally, to other people for the twenty-five years I’ve been able to do these things. If I choose to exist as a constantly wound knot of tension, that’s my own business.’ 

‘No repercussions that you are aware of,’ Gandalf replies. ‘This is no market-place trick. No hay-penny fire eating is happening here. To treat it otherwise is willful blindness.’ 

Gríma presses himself into the chair. Thins his mouth into a line. 

‘Willful blindness is its own form of selfishness,’ the wizard continues. ‘And gods help us, the world is drowning in selfishness and arrogance.’ 

A motion from Théoden and Gandalf sits back. Gríma continues to turn the cup around in his lap, he watches the dark liquid gently swirl. The fire pops. A lampwick hisses. Someone is playing drums out in the main hall. 

‘Aragorn tells me he saw someone in the caves,’ Gandalf says once the moment of quiet has passed.

‘I see.’ 

‘Tell me, what did the person look like who gave you these abilities?’ 

The one who isn’t Béma, Gríma thinks. The one whose name is too old to know. 

‘He said he came on the wind. Or from wind. I can’t remember. His appearance is strange. He’s tall, wears pelts of wolf and bear. His fingers are long and are reminiscent of tree branches. On his head there’s a crown, of sorts, made from antlers and ravens’ feathers. There might be bones in it.’

‘And his face?’ Éomer asks but his expression says: _I know._

‘There isn’t one.’

The others present murmur amongst themselves. The ranger-king eyes him with interest and seems, to Gríma, to be piecing something together. Lord Boromir is evidently spooked. Legolas and the dwarf-prince are interested. Éomer has adopted his inscrutable expression. Théoden is somber contemplation. 

‘His skin is like burlap,’ Gríma continues, ‘or undyed linen, with indents where the eyes ought to be. There’s a suggestion of a nose and mouth, but no face. No features.’ 

Théoden suddenly says, ‘Like a sculptor beginning the head of a figurine? he makes indents where features belong but it’s still a mostly empty space of clay.’ 

Gríma starts. Says that yes, it’s like that. Théoden takes a long drink of his wine before motioning to Gandalf to continue. 

'Now, this is important,’ Gandalf leans forward. Gríma shifts back. ‘When you went to this person for the first time, when you were a boy, what was said?’ 

Who knows. Gríma can’t remember. He was fourteen! It was twenty-six years ago. 

Thinking back all he recalls is that it had been hot that summer. And dry. The soil baked until it cracked. There had been the threat of storms but little, actual rain, only lightning. This caused his father to constantly worry about fire. He would stand in the doorway and watch clouds pile up and roll over the land. The heat made everyone mad. Owensel and Baldir were particularly rough because the other boys had been rough with them. It was a gift that was passed on. Though, it stopped with Gríma because he had no one to give that gift of roughness to.

‘There was a grotto in the forest,’ Gríma speaks slowly. Trying to follow the thin thread of memory. ‘Everyone in Aldstadt took things there to seek aid and give thanks. It was generally accepted that Béma passed through and the gifts were for him. I went at some point, one summer, and asked for help and, uh, the faceless one showed up. I think he said: _you asked for a god and a god has answered._ Or something like that.’ 

Gandalf sighs. Sitting back he gives the ringer-king a meaningful look. The ranger merely raises an eyebrow. 

‘Wait,’ Éomer leans forward to rest elbows on the table, ‘you were told that but didn’t think to ask for details?’ 

What a magnificent grounding force is Éomer. Like being hit with a boulder. 

‘I was a bit preoccupied, my lord.’ 

‘This faceless thing shows up and you look at it and think: _this is a good idea ?’_

Gríma scowls, ‘I was a child. I didn’t, exactly, think it through.’ 

Éomer’s dramatic expression, as always, a sight to behold. 

Gríma turns attention back to Gandalf who is measuring him up. A careful process, for the wizard takes his time. Finally, whatever Gandalf is thinking through is complete and he effuses an air of satisfaction. 

‘We’ll have a conversation later,’ Gandalf says. ‘But now is not the time. There are more pressing matters to discuss.’ Gandalf then shifts his own attention to Théoden and the remainder of the table for he is evidently done with Gríma. The wizard declares that some of the items discussed today will be answered by Saruman. Other things, the answers will come in their own time. 

Gríma remains with his back pressed into the chair, attempting to not be noticed. Generally, he can avoid being seen if he wishes. But oh, there are times when he longs for the ability to disappear entirely. What a rare and useful gift. 

‘Will Saruman have an answer to the tree riddle?’ Théoden asks. 

‘Possibly.’ 

‘Of my men, aside from guards, I’ll take Éomer, Erkenbrand, and Gamling. They may pick others to attend, if they believe it is warranted.’ Théoden to Cynric, ‘I would have you see to the burials and readying those still able bodied to ride for Edoras where we will regroup. Others will be meeting us there from the farther reaches of the Marc.’ 

The page refills the king’s cup. 

Théoden adds, ‘Háma is to be buried in his own grave. At the head of the other men of the Westfold. I would have him marked out for all to know.’ 

Cynric says that he will see it done. And the rune stone? 

‘Gwenyr will advise on the image so leave it blank for the moment.’ Théoden runs his hand over exhausted face. ‘I would have private council with Gandalf, Éomer, and Erkenbrand. The rest of you, get rest while you can. If you are riding to Orthanc, know that we are leaving tonight.’ 

Chairs scrape back. Men bow and take their leave. Lingering by the door Gríma manages to arrange it so he is the last one out. Once alone in the hall, he ducks around a corner to a servant’s door that leads to the council chamber. Kneeling, he leans close to see if anything can be heard from the keyhole. 

Most of the voices are muffled. A catch of: ‘--it’s an old god, I’m certain of it,’ from Gandalf. 

A reply from Éomer that starts: ‘Would we be able to make use of -’ Gríma can’t make out the rest. 

More talk. 

Théoden, ‘-- not have him stay longer than necessary.’ 

Gríma assumes the king means him. 

Erkenbrand, ‘He’ll be hard to shift, my lord. I’m convinced he’s the sort who digs in their heels when pressed.’ 

Then again, maybe not. Maybe they’re talking about Saruman. That would make sense, contextually. And Gríma would never consider himself to be the sort to dig in heels. The opposite, in fact. 

Voices, voices, voices. 

Éomer, ‘Honestly, I blame everything on Eorl.’ 

Théoden, ‘ _Really,_ Éomer.’ 

‘What?’ 

Voices. 

Erkenbrand, ‘--so actually, one can argue that it’s all Brego’s fault.’ 

Gandalf, ‘I think we can stop -’ something, something. ‘--they’re dead, after all.’ 

‘A little bird who listens at doors ought to be a quiet one who can fly faster than the hawk.’ Legolas peers around the corner. He holds out a jug and shakes it. 

Gríma swiftly stands. ‘I was merely curious.’ 

‘A dangerous personality trait,’ mildly replied. ‘But one that makes for an interesting person. I have procured what your country-men choose to call heady-wine or fire-wine, though they said the word was _réamwín._ ’ 

‘There’s no proper Westron for it,’ Gríma automatically replies. ‘And I don’t know if there’s a Sindarin equivalent.’

Legolas ignores him, ‘I have been given to understand that humans bond by quaffing large amounts of this and I have decided that you are a strange bird.’ 

‘Um- well- snake is more usually the comparison.’

‘I know little about snakes but much about birds. Let us imbibe.’ 

Gríma looks ruefully at the door. Legolas plucks his sleeve saying, ‘La, it is but Gandalf who speaks in riddles. You will hear nothing of use to you from there.’ 

‘And my king, who does not speak in riddles.’ 

Legolas shrugs. ‘Perhaps.’ He then walks off, merrily swinging the jug of réamwín. Gríma gives a last glance at the door before following after. 

The elf leads the way outside, through the ruined front gates, to a large rock that was once part of the Hornburg’s outer wall but now rests on the causeway. He happily sits himself down then pours them both a cup. Réamwín is a dark wine, thick, and is all spice and dark berries. It is generally drunk from small, delicate cups with carvings of birds and fish. Not decidedly large ale mugs. 

‘Almien,’ Legolas says.

‘Wæs hæl,’ Gríma replies. They cheers, Legolas tapping his cup to the rock before taking a drink. 

‘It is for good luck and good news,’ he explains. 

‘In the north Wold, where I’m from, we do this thing for good luck and health. Here, you go up,’ Gríma raises the cup and Legolas mirrors him. ‘And say _hefunge_. Then down and say _niðersige_. Then to the middle, we clink cups, and say _tógehlytte_. Then you drink, _wæs hæl_.’ They both drink. 

Legolas’ sharp smile. ‘I shall return with that to my home and teach my father.’ 

‘Right.’ 

‘He will find it delightful.’ 

A part of Gríma’s mind that hasn’t stopped being Théoden’s adviser runs through potential fallout from this declaration and decides that so far as any possible future trade or political relations are concerned, this won’t have too many negative impacts. It just might give the elf-king the wrong impression of Éotheod. 

As Legolas tops up their cups Gríma asks, ‘Tell me. Do you know anything about old gods?’ 

Legolas wears a quizzical expression. Gríma repeats it in Sindarin. 

‘I have never heard of such a thing save from Aragorn,’ Legolas replies, taking them back to Westron. ‘He saw a woman possessed by one in the east many years ago.’ 

‘Aragorn doesn’t think they’re real,’ a new voice. Gríma twists to see the dwarf-prince leaning against the wreckage of the front doors. ‘Even now, after potentially seeing one, he’s hemming and hawing over it. But that is ever his way. Look, I don’t mean to interrupt, but, ah, Legolas, I was wondering if we could have a word.’ 

Legolas is up with alacrity and hands the jug of réamwín to Gríma saying, ‘I must say pretty words of apology.’ He then bows and joins the dwarf and the two walk back into the citadel. 

Gríma watches them go until they disappear inside before lying back on the rock, eyes closing. Somehow, he remains alive. A wonder. A miracle, even. Or a curse, depending on one’s point of view. 

Life is both immediate and stretching out before him. He frets about how he will survive the next week, he frets about what he might be doing in five years. He frets about Brynja and the face she will wear when she hears of everything. He frets that he will never see her again. He wants for a plan but cannot craft one. Everything is out of his control. It has been many years since he felt so adrift. 

But the late afternoon sun is warm, and this spot on the boulder is an improvement over the cold puddle on the Deeping Wall. From the hall there can be heard distant drums and humming. A song Gríma is familiar with has begun making this precise moment feel strangely comforting.

The réamwín makes everything just fuzzy enough, just distant enough, that he can stop thinking about it for ten minutes. And in those ten minutes, for what feels like the first time in years, he manages to fall asleep.


	22. After the Battle, an Interlude

Emerging from the king’s council Boromir feels as if he’s descended out from the darkened forest that lingers between Hornburg and open plains of the Marc. What strange whispers they made, how wild their scent. He has seen the cave entrance and while he is impressed, even awed, there is a difference between roots covering an opening – one that is big enough, sure, but not massive - and the wilderness of forest.

The Forest’s Shadow, as Gandalf called it. It moves as a smoke, you do not want to be in its way when it passes you by, for it might take you with it.

‘While that cleared up many things, I’m still curious about this figure you saw,’ Boromir says as he and Aragorn make their way to the main hall. ‘What do you think it is? Who do you think it is?’

Aragorn hems and haws over the answer. Goes to speak several times but doesn’t quite make it. At last, he manages a whispered: ‘We should talk about it somewhere else.’

‘Not sure anyone is paying us mind.’

Which is true. The hall is alive with song and drums and harps and wooden pipes. Gundahar is on a table top belting out some lyrics that are clearly dirty, if his lewd expression and the cajolling from the crowd is anything to go by. A young woman walks past carrying clean linens for the wounded, catches Gundahar’s eye, ducks her head with a blush. More cajoling happens.

And there is Legolas walking off with a jug of strong wine; Gimli being roped into a game of dice with a group of soldiers and their wives. Even those tending the wounded and dead do so with less weight upon their shoulders than might be expected.

What a boisterous collection of men, women, children, animals – all the beauty of life. Of what is worth fighting for.

Down the hall from Gundahar’s performance a woman wearing an ochre headscarf strikes up a song. It is evidently well known for others quickly join in.

‘It’s about a man returned from war,’ Aragorn says. He hands Boromir a cup of ale from a near-by barrel. They cheers.

‘A universal theme.’

‘There are some dirty bits, too.’

‘Of course,’ Boromir sips his ale. ‘It’s a song about reunited lovers. They’re required to have dirty bits, I’m fairly certain. Well, maybe the elvish ones don’t.’

Aragorn smiles as he drinks.

‘I sense I’m wrong.’

‘I’ll teach you sometime.’

Boromir thinks this as good an entry as any and is about to say: _Well, how about know?_ with a significant look towards the back rooms and caves beyond when Mithrandir materializes near them.

‘How fares the king’s council?’ Boromir asks. 

‘It fares well enough. Théoden has much ahead of him to consider.’ Mithrandir pauses to watch a couple dance past, whirling to the beat of the loudest song. ‘But the issue of the forest and the creature in the caves is not one to focus on at the moment. Not for him, at least.’

Helpfully vague, as always, Boromir doesn’t say.

‘I wanted a quiet word with the two of you,’ Mithrandir continues as he turns and leads the way out of the hall. The three walk along quiet passages eventually pausing by make-shift stables. ‘I know I said that Sauron has been disturbed and that he is now looking at his enemies with greater interest. I fear things will go foul for Gondor.’

‘Then we should leave,’ Boromir says.

‘Not yet,’ Mithrandir holds up a gentle hand. ‘Saruman may have some answers for us. I only mean to say that you both should be ready to ride at a moment's notice.’

Boromir’s eyes slide from Mithrandir to Aragorn and find the ranger to be as stoic as a carved king in the wilds near Imladris. Boromir does not think how Aragorn has not answered his question: will you, or won’t you, take the throne? Their previous conversation having been cut short by untimely arrivals.

Or timely, depending on one’s point of view.

‘Why would Sauron be suddenly so interested?’ Aragorn asks. ‘I assume whatever moved those trees has attracted his attention. But why should he be concerned? Surely his mind is on other matters.’

‘He knows there was some power worked here last night,’ Mithrandir replies. ‘He knows the ring was carried by the Fellowship. He knows Saruman has betrayed him and seeks the ring for himself. He knows there are great lords present: Boromir, Théoden, Éomer, Legolas, Gimli, Saruman, myself – he knows all of us are here and therefore, he assumes, near the ring. Which one of us used it? He’s wondering. Which one of us has it?’

Without rhythm, Boromir taps the pommel of his sword. If the dark lord thinks Boromir has the ring, he will make for Gondor. If he thinks Théoden has it, he will make for Rohan. But to take Rohan, he’d cross through Gondor first. Regardless, Boromir thinks, he needs to be home now. He needed to be home yesterday.

‘I should leave,’ he says. ‘I know you are to speak with Saruman but I should go now. You can send word if anything useful comes from the conference.’ He does not look at Aragorn as he speaks. Once upon a time, in the early days of the Fellowship, when things were easier, he would have said: _We should leave._ Because in those days, though Aragorn was reluctant, there was no statement of: _I might not._

_I might not take this path._

But now there is. Like a weight tied around his waist, he carries it about and tries not to think about it for he knows how much heavier it must be for Aragorn. 

‘No, no,’ Mithrandir places his hand on Boromir’s shoulder, a gesture that briefly catapults Boromir back into being fifteen. ‘Not yet. Soon, but not yet. And you should not ride alone. The world has changed much since you left Minas Tirith and the road south is not safe.’

‘Nowhere is safe.’

‘Indeed, but at least there are friends and allies here. Sauron has not made a move –‘

‘Yet. That we know of.’

A deep sigh and suddenly Mithrandir is the old man Boromir has always known. The wizard says yes, Boromir is right. But he is counseling patience. ‘Wait but a few days, much will become clear. I have no doubt of it.’

‘Well good, because currently everything is as about as clear as mud.’

Mithrandir quickly rolls his eyes before composing himself and returning again to the sage dispenser of wisdom. ‘Two days,’ Mithrandir says, stepping off in the direction of Théoden’s council rooms. ‘Two days Boromir. You can hold your horses until then. I know you have some capabilities of patience.’

Before Boromir can retort the old wizard has waved a dismissal and strode off in search of leaders who are more willing to listen to his reason.

‘Well, if all council meetings are to be thus, this makes the prospect of kingship much more palatable,’ Aragorn says, mildly. ‘But really, you shouldn’t provoke him.’

‘I’ve said worse to his face.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t know how you have the patience for this sort of thing. Don’t misunderstand me, I respect Gandalf. I would even say that I like him, when all is said and done. But I do not have the wherewithal to handle the mysterious prophesying and soothing.’

Aragorn grins, takes out his pipe and pulls himself a bowl. ‘There’s a method to it all.’

‘Is there?’ Boromir squints at the other man. ‘Or are you saying that to make yourself feel better?’

‘Perhaps,’ Aragorn blows out smoke, ‘what I took from this is that Gandalf thinks any sudden movement on our part will attract greater attention from Sauron. So, when we inevitably have to make a move, we should do so with as much information to hand as possible. Hence, the insistence on visiting Saruman.’

Boromir kicks at the floor, half turns to look down the hall. If he remembers rightly there are spare rooms in that direction. He begins a slow, meandering walk. ‘But will it be fruitful? Saruman may have been in the enemy’s council but if Sauron knows he has been betrayed, I doubt Saruman will have any accurate information to provide. Should he even be willing to give it.’

‘The dark lord moves in ever mysterious ways.’

Boromir snorts, mutters that he wouldn’t exactly put it like that. They come to an open door to an empty room with no indication of it being in use. Boromir figures it will do. Though, now that he is tugging Aragorn in through the door and closing it behind them, he isn’t sure of his next steps. There had been a vague sort of a plan, but it deserts him when Aragorn sets his pipe down and looks at him with expectation.

Those grey eyes, a twilight steel, nailing Boromir to where he stands. He tries a half-hazard step forward. Wonders where his general ability to maneuver these situations with some grace went. Wonders why good sense has deserted him.

They make the partial dance of coming close, kissing each other, one walking the other back into a wall. In this case, it is Aragorn who winds up between Boromir and a worn tapestry. And this is something Boromir is suitably versed in yet here and now, it feels as if they are inventing it all for the first time. As if no other human has ever thought to do what they are doing.

Aragorn’s mouth is soft, his palms on Boromir’s cheek rough. Boromir slides one hand behind Aragorn’s head and into his hair. The other wanders down the ranger’s worn surcoat, tugging it open he finds leather, feels the press of mail and quilting beneath. He so badly wants to feel skin, so badly wants Aragorn under him. But gods, this is not the right time or place. 

There will never be the right time or place. That is the nature of this entire entanglement. 

A brief parting, they rest foreheads against each other. Aragorn wraps an arm around Boromir neck, leans in and kisses him, tongue pressing past lips. Which is a tidal wave of heat. Boromir half-moans _gods_ as Aragorn turns them slowly so Boromir’s back is pressed against the wall with Aragorn flush against him. Boromir thinks they could stay like this forever. Exactly like this. He thinks he wants to rub himself up Aragorn’s leg which is very present between his thighs. He thinks he wants to rut into Aragorn’s hand as much as he wants him naked on a bed. 

Why are they wearing so much? It’s a disaster. Why is so much needed for battle? Why can’t they all wear mithril and never worry about another stray blade again? Never mind that the leather and quilting and mail are why both of them remain alive. That and good luck.

Their luck spirits!

But none of that matters, what matters is that they should be naked.

Or at least tunics hitched up more and leggings undone and hands down between thighs in a meaningful and worthwhile manner. 

Aragorn pauses. Boromir thinks this daft so kisses along the ranger’s jawline to ear - where there’s a sharp breath in - then to neck. Aragorn’s hands are wandering, doing things, groping ass, crotch, or sometimes cupping Boromir’s cheek like he’s something sacred. Pressing a moan into Aragorn’s neck he feels a hand back between his legs and stars does he want more. He wants Aragorn’s hand on his cock, he wants his mouth on it too, he wants to feel the future king’s tongue between his thighs. 

Boromir’s inhale is a sharp hiss and Aragorn is kissing him, bites his bottom lip. In a pause Boromir murmurs, ‘There’s a bed.’ 

And Aragorn laughs, warm breath against ear. 

It is a similar dance from wall to bed, losing the first of outer layers along the way. Boromir eagerly pushes Aragorn down and crawls on top. Which is a mistake, he quickly realizes. Now, somewhat horizon, the three or so days of constant movement, minimal sleep, and over eight hours of battle hit like a wall of bricks. 

What had been heated, softens. Boromir murmurs against Aragorn’s mouth, ‘I want to shag you but I also want to sleep for five hundred years.’ And Aragorn laughs again, declares that Boromir is possibly one of the least romantic men he’s ever met. 

‘We were having a moment,’ Aragorn insists. 

‘Sure,’ Boromir happily agrees. ‘But that doesn’t change the truth of what I said.’ He pauses, shifts a bit, then gives a lascivious grin. ‘I mean, I can do you.’ 

Aragorn frowns, hands fluttering at Boromir’s waist, tugging gently at the tunic. Fingers then move and trace the belt, the interwoven designs, back to where Boromir sheaths his knife. 

‘Expecting an attack?’ 

‘No, but I’m never not armed.’ 

Aragorn becomes sly. ‘What, even when we were before Théoden and were instructed to leave all weapons at the door?’ 

Boromir chooses to kiss Aragorn over replying then rolls off to the side. When was the last time he slept in a real bed? Lothlórien, he thinks. Which was an entire lifetime ago. Also, only a matter of weeks. 

Reaching forward he traces Aragorn’s profile which is not particularly striking, but still strong enough to have a presence. He decides he likes it. Aragorn catches his hand as he rolls to face Boromir. ‘You left that blade at the door. I saw you.’ 

‘I did.’ 

‘So what went with you into the hall?’ 

Boromir frees his hand and taps Aragorn’s nose. ‘Am I not allowed to have secrets? I must maintain some air of mystery or you shall grow bored and leave me for a young gad-about soldier in Minas Tirith who ankles around town in the latest fashions.’ 

‘I would do no such thing. And you are plenty interesting. Shall I count the ways?’ 

Boromir snorts. ‘Flattery will not work here, my lord.’ Aragorn drapes an arm around Boromir’s waist, a finger dipping beneath the belt, as he leans in for a kiss. ‘Nor that, I am impervious to your wiles.’ 

‘What? You would deny your king?’ He stops. Becomes apologetic. But Boromir is smiling because at least Aragorn is jesting about kingship which he takes as a good sign. 

‘Only when my king is being a menace.’ This prompts another sly look from Aragorn and Boromir thinks to say something but finds exhaustion has stolen his ability to speak. ‘Boots,’ he yawns. Adjusting his pillow he adds, ‘I’ve a rather nasty stiletto in my boots.’ 

Aragorn’s eyebrows raise, his mouth forms a small o. ‘Even in Imladris?’ 

Boromir shrugs. 

‘Even in Lorien?’ 

‘Absolutely. Witch in the woods, remember?’ 

Aragorn says that he does remember. But he had thought, well, that Boromir would have felt at least somewhat safe in those places. They’re well guarded and no one unwanted would be allowed in. Even in the more summery days of Imladris. Elrond is a bit of a stickler for well protected borders. He doesn’t like feeling vulnerable. He doesn’t like to feel that he is unable to protect his people.

‘I know they’re safe,’ Boromir sighs. ‘I just - old habits. They’re hard to shake and I would argue that this isn’t the time to shake them.’ 

‘Well, no. Of course not. But one day I hope you will.’ 

Boromir taps Aragorn’s nose again and says yes, perhaps, one day. When the war is over and there is no more strife and death and ruined crops and the world has learned again what it is to live under the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't look at me; this is all Boromir's fault


	23. Coming in From the Cold

The sun has already kissed western mountains when the riders depart Helm’s Deep through the shadowed vale and coombe, barely illuminated by moon and stars. With Théoden and his chosen companions are a selection of guards, several of whom ride alongside, and slightly ahead, of the party with torches to light the way. 

The coombe mouth remains darkened by the unnatural forest. As they slowly approach the treeline a chill works its way down Boromir’s spine and into his bones. The air smells old, how it did in Fangorn and Moria. The closer they come to the sorcerous woods the more frantic the horses become till, at length, Théoden halts. A woodland breath exhales. The men shudder. Before them are drooping trees, tangled branches that grasp out as winnowing hands, their roots gripping hard earth how Denethor would grip Boromir’s shoulder when he was a boy and wanting to run off. His father’s hands are shaped like squares, but his fingers are long and made of iron and balsa wood. 

‘You know the way through?’ Théoden asks but Mithrandir does not reply. He only smiles and motions for them to continue onward. 

Finally, they arrive at where the Deeping road, and its companion stream, disappear into forest. At first it seems there is no way forward, that they are trapped in this valley and the fortress behind them, but Mithrandir goes up to the very edge of trees and, holding up his staff, an archway forms.

‘What new devilry is this?’ Boromir whispers to Aragorn. 

‘Something old.’ 

‘The last time we encountered something ancient it was the Balrog.’ 

Aragorn eyes the forest with distrust but says that he thinks they will have better luck here. What? Boromir wants to know. Aragorn is a tree whisperer, like Legolas? 

‘Gut feeling,’ is Aragorn’s amiable reply. ‘I trust it, in this case.’ 

‘And Gandalf’s already entered so turning back isn’t really an option,’ Boromir mutters, perhaps louder than intended. Aragorn shoots him a look. Boromir shrugs, then motions for the other man to lead the way. 

The road before them is cramped, but Boromir can just barely make out the end, where the cloistered life of trees meets open night. Yet there is a ways to go and there is no reprieve of the oppression of the forest until then. On either side of the road it hems in, close and constant. A mist wraps itself around the base of the trees, covers the road in grey gauze and around them, all can hear the creaks of wood, groans of shifting branches. 

And the whispers. 

They slip out from the trees, around trunks, slithering down the spine and making skin itch. Even Aragorn’s face gains a new warriness as they continue. But, he soon rearranges himself into feigned confidence, his leader’s face that he wears when he is uncertain but knows that he is the one who is keeping people going. To the men around them he says, ‘The trees are old and have something to say.’ 

Gundahar, one of the torch bearers, ‘I think I can live my life well enough without hearing it.’ 

Twisting about, Boromir searches the faces of the others present. Tries to recall names to put to faces. Towards the back of the company is dark hair, a familiar angular face that belongs to one terribly upset Gríma. Boromir knows he ought to say something for he was one of the few who offered a hand in Edoras and so he shouldn’t fall away from kindness now. 

But, gods, the man is hard to talk to at the best of times. Decidedly strange and quite prickly. Like a pin-cushion. 

Perhaps he can put off the inevitably awkward conversation. Maybe it will never happen. Which is a cruel thought to think. Boromir pushes it away. Blames it on the voices of the forest which reminds him a little too much of the ring and how it would whisper such things in the back of his mind.

‘I suspect they’re angry,’ Boromir says as Gríma slowly rides up. The former advisor looks about, realizes Boromir is speaking to him, then shrugs. Says that he wouldn’t know. While looking much improved from when Boromir saw him in the council room, the man wears an ugly, dissatisfied expression. 

‘I wonder what happened to the orcs who came through here after the battle,’ Boromir tries. 

Gríma smiles a nasty smile. ‘I don’t suppose we will ever know, my lord.’ 

‘But you have your suspicions.’ 

‘My grandmother always said that Fangorn consumed unwanted things. I assume it is the same for,’ a casual gesture to the trees. 

Boromir says _ Ah  _ and cannot think of what to say beyond: gods does the earth ever want to devour us. Caradhras, Fangorn, this mysterious forest, the ocean, the Anduin — 

Nodding to Gríma’s hand Boromir asks, ‘Does it hurt?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘I assume someone’s seen to it.’ 

‘Most assuredly, my lord.’ Then, a taught smile that is edging towards pleasant. ‘How was visiting the elves? Did you procure an answer to your riddle?’ 

‘I did. Sort of. Though, that feels like a lifetime ago.’ 

‘It has been several seasons since you passed through, that is true. Six months, I believe.’ 

‘Six months.’ Boromir rubs a hand over his face, hears Gríma say:  _ or maybe you would rather speak of something else  _ but the man’s evident curiosity remains palpable. ‘Gods, what is time?’ 

‘I suppose it would depend on how you measure it and what purpose it serves, my lord. But, I think it can generally be understood to be a means of providing ourselves a form of demarcation or delineation through which we can construct a story. As rather narrative driven creatures, we do rely on stories in order to understand ourselves and place ourselves in relation to others.’ 

‘Er - I was speaking metaphorically.’ 

‘Ah.’ A cough. ‘Forgive me, my lord, I am not at my best.’ 

‘Time is a pretty song we sing ourselves and it varies in rhythm. It is both terribly fast and frighteningly slow.’ 

Boromir tilts his head up to look at the trees above because gods help him, here is the timely arrival of Legolas. And Gimli, who is riding with Legolas, so at least that’s something. 

Gimli, upon arrival, gives Boromir a look of:  _ what is happening? _

‘I have a question for the witch,’ Legolas merrily continues. (Gríma, sotto voce:  _ I’m not a witch. _ ) ‘These trees are the strangest I have ever seen. I have walked among old oak, and have seen many grown from acorn to ruinous age, but these ones are different. Tell me, how was it you bade them come to us?’ 

Gríma heaves a deep sigh, ‘I didn’t.’ 

‘How then did you bid the old one to summon them?’ 

‘I didn’t.’ 

Legolas tuts, ‘That is not well done. But you are young and have taught me a new way to drink to one’s health so I will not speak of this but to say I wish we had time to walk among them. They have such voices and I would like to come to know their thoughts.’ 

‘Oh gods, I think I’m happy to forgo that particular pleasure,’ Gimli says. ‘I’m fairly certain they detest most of us who walk on two legs. Our horses would be fine, though.’ 

‘Perhaps not all creatures that dare to walk upon two legs. I believe them to be fierce enemies of orcs and any who would seek to harm them. But elves, dwarves, and men who but walk among their leaves and fine branches? Nay, I do not believe they mean us any harm.’ 

Gimli considers this for a spell. ‘So, not unlike Lothlórien. Haldir said that nothing unwanted lasts for long in their woods. Though, here the trees do it for themselves rather than relying on elven protectors.’ 

‘That is because these trees are wild, wondrous, and ancient.’ 

‘Feral,’ Boromir mutters. Gríma snorts. 

‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Gimli shoots a glance towards the traitor-witch, ‘I am thankful for the role they played in this battle, but I don’t think I could ever love them, or think them wondrous. Do you know what is wondrous? The caverns of Helm’s Deep.’ 

Boromir blinks, that was not what he expected to hear. He thinks of the slightly muddy caves and halls he walked through. Useful? Yes. Wondrous? Not exactly. 

‘Strange are the ways of men,’ Gimli continues. ‘You call them caves, as if they are but boltholes to flee to in war. But having had the pleasure of walking through some of the caverns during our brief stay I can confidently say that they are vast and beautiful. I know dwarves who would pay good money to catch just a glimpse of them.’ 

‘Surely they cannot be that worthy?’ Legolas asks. 

‘You didn’t see them.  _ You _ were napping. But I’ve heard you go on about your halls under the hills of Mirkwood where your father the king dwells and--’ 

‘Yes, I know, dwarves built them.’ 

‘Too right we did. But, the caverns here, they are twice as majestic. I caught glimpses of silent, mirroring pools in these caves that are as fair as Kheled-zâram in starlight. The delicate fans and feathers of calcite. The folded marble along the walls of deeper paths than where most of the men here seem to travel. Do you know, some of the folds were so thin they were almost translucent. Then there were the columns of white and saffron and dawn-rose, fluted and twisted into such dreamlike forms. Oh, and from the ceiling and walls of the caves there were wings, ropes, curtains of stone as delicate as silk. In my eye I could see cities stretching out with pillared courtyards, magnificently wide avenues, they would go on until they reached the dark recesses where no light can come.’ Gimli becomes quiet. 

‘Dawn-rose,’ Gríma says into the silence, ‘I like that. I’m going to keep it.’ 

‘You came through the caves, what of them did you see?’ Gimli asks, rounding on Gríma with keen interest. 

‘Less than you. I don’t have an eye for it and I was otherwise occupied. Also, there was no light. Stigr was hungry and followed his nose into the used portions of the caves. So I did experience the dark recesses.’ 

‘The dark heart of the caves is where you go if you want to truly know the nature of your soul.’ 

Gríma considers Gimli with that long, calculating look of the Rohirric. Then, a whisper of a smile. ‘If that is the case, I’ve little desire to return.’ 

‘It’s frightening, yes, but there is comfort in the dark. Safety, strength, warmth in the blackness of the deep underground. The dark heart of the caves is not a place to be lightly visited, though, that I will grant you.’ 

‘I’m with Gríma,’ Boromir chimes in. ‘I think I will give the deep dive into the true nature of my soul a miss for the time being.’ 

And Gimli laughs, grins at both of them. Declares men to be giddy things. ‘Your soul is you, but maybe it is wise to be afraid of oneself. Anyway, I was attempting to convey why I think the caverns of Helm’s Deep to be superior to the magic forest our local witch ( _ ‘I’m not a witch’ _ ) summoned.’ 

‘If that is truly what you think, Gimli,’ Legolas says. ‘Then I will wish upon you this fortune: that you may come safely away from this war and return again to look upon them.’ 

‘Would you mine them?’ Gríma asks. Boromir thinks he can detect a glint of pecuniary interest. ‘I assume there are things of value in there.’ 

‘Not for all the world,’ Gimli replies, solemnly. ‘Would you cut down a grove of blossoming trees in spring time for firewood? Would you sheer your land of its silver ocean filled with summer wildflowers to sell as fodder? If I were to live here, if any of my people were to live here, we would tend these glades of flowering stones, not quarry them. And oh, Legolas,’ Gimli taps Legolas’ back, ‘we would build lights. Such lamps as once shone in Khazad-dûm; and when we wished we could take them and drive away the night that has lain there since these hills and mountains were made.’ 

Legolas chews over this. Boromir thinks to say something, to remark on the beauty of what Gimli spoke of, to say that he would be interested in visiting. Moria was grand on a scale that is unimaginable, but beautiful? It was no shining jewel, as Osgiliath once was (and will be again, he firmly tells himself). Moria was fearsome and awesome, something to humble a man and bring him to his knees. These caverns, though, sound like something out of song and legend. 

Like the song Gimli taught him and Sam, months ago,  _ in places deep, where dark things sleep, in hollow halls beneath the fells, on silver necklaces they strung the light of stars, on crowns they hung the dragon-fire, from twisted wire the melody of harps they wrung -- _

But before he is able to gather his thoughts, Legolas speaks. ‘You move me, my friend. I have rarely heard you speak thusly and you make of me regret that I did not venture into them with you. Come, we shall make a bargain. It shall go along with our competition on who will slay the most orcs before this war is over. The bargain shall be: should we both return, safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey for a while together —’

‘I thought that was already the plan. We talked about it.’ 

‘Peace, dwarf. Let me finish.’ 

‘Hurry up, elf, some of us have other conversations we want to have.’ 

‘We will journey together and you shall visit Fangorn with me and I will visit the caverns of Helm’s Deep with you. The choice of where we go first will be awarded to the victor of whoever slays the most foul beasts.’ 

‘Very well, we will be going to Helm’s Deep then Fangorn,’ Gimli happily agrees. ‘For I am going to win.’ 

‘You sing a song full of impossibilities. But, I would never seek to stop an individual from dreaming sweet dreams.’ 

Glancing towards Gríma, Boromir finds him closely watching Legolas and Gimli as they natter on about wagers and battles and an unknowable future. After a moment their a flutter of movement about his mouth that could be termed a brief smile. Or smirk. Then he tilts his head, catches Boromir’s expression, and quickly drops his gaze before giving a:  _ good day, my lord, _ and nudging his horse onward. 

Coming out of the forest is coming up for breath. The moon remains small, for the dark moon is only a day or so off, and the stars are not as bright as they might have been. The filth of Sauron clouds even night skies as far north as Rohan’s border with Isengard. 

Boromir rides forward, intending to join up with Aragorn and Éomer and, in doing so, passes again by Gríma who is staring upwards. 

‘I’ve never known the stars to dim themselves,’ he says as Boromir approaches. 

‘Sauron’s doing.’ 

‘Yes,’ the word is drawn out. ‘Sauruman called it a dust veil,’ abruptly he stops. Boromir stares ahead to Mithrandir and Théoden, the torch bearers ahead of them. Wants to say he understands how silken and seductive the enemy can be, how a man’s own understanding of himself can be twisted around until he is unrecognizable. Until all that remains are his fears and his despair. And he knows what a cold and lonesome place that is. 

But that would entail explaining the ring which is not something Boromir wants to talk about with anyone outside of Aragorn and Gimli. Not to mention that it would be unwise to tell Gríma about the ring. He may be returned but, well, he was further along that road than Boromir. Who knows how much of it still clings to him. 

‘A dust veil,’ Boromir chews over the phrase. ‘Saruman might be evil, but he isn’t wrong with that description.’ 

And Gríma’s shoulders relax, by only a hair, but it’s there. Then a deluge: many thanks for the lord’s words at Meduseld, as undeserving as he was, and is, of them. Apologies for not being more worthy, for not being more honourable. More thanks for the proffered hand — 

He drivels on and Boromir lets him until all the words are done and he slowly trails off. Boromir says, ‘It’s not me you need to apologize to, nor do you need to thank me. But I appreciate the sentiment all the same.’ 

Gríma bows his head with another bout of thanking Boromir before swinging his gaze back to the dimmed heavens. ‘I used to look at them when at Orthanc. Sneak off to star gaze from atop the tower.’ 

‘That is what it was originally built for.’ 

‘Indeed, my lord.’ Gríma fidgets with the reins then tugs absently at the hem of his sleeves. ‘I think I wanted to thank you because at one point, recently, things weren’t — well, things weren’t good, shall we say, and what you said in Meduseld was of comfort.’ 

‘I’m glad they were of some help.’

‘I grew up by the fields of Celebrant, bit of a wasteland, and I can’t help but think how much more will become like that. No matter which way the war goes, we still lose.’

‘Unfortunately, these are the days we’ve been born to and the world we’ve inherited from our forefathers. And you’re right, the evil of Sauron cannot be wholly cured, nor can it be made as if none of this ever happened. But that doesn’t cheapen our victory, nor does it lessen the mending we will have to undertake. The world is like a body, when a limb is cut open it will heal and be inherently different from how it was before. But that does not cheapen the limb. And if you should have a limp, that doesn’t make the healing less miraculous.’

Gríma bobs his head in agreement but Boromir isn’t sure he’s listening, for he seems to be in another place entirely. And even if Gríma were listening, Boromir isn’t sure he would be able to hear him. Just as Boromir spent so long with sight but not being able to see, until it was almost too late. 

The company arrives at the Ford of Isen after many hours of hard riding. Several barrows stand where Erkenbrand’s men buried their fallen comrades before joining the others at Helm’s Deep. Rising up in the dark, they are covered with the large, soft stones of river bed. Jutting out from between the stones are the spears of the dead, the silver tips of steel glinting in pale starlight. Amongst the dead, Théodred’s runestone stands lonesome where he fell. 

The river, though almost always shallow at the Ford, is almost barren. No cold water rushes against rock with its ancient, laughing noise. At the edge of the river Théoden halts his men, declaring they will camp here for a few hours to rest their horses. Then, onward to Isengard. 

Boromir finds Éomer at a campfire whittling away at a small flute. Taking a seat he says, ‘Don’t let Aragorn know you have that. He’ll make you play along to his and Legolas’ elvish ballads.’ 

‘I’d like that,’ Eomer says. ‘I’ve never heard an elvish ballad. What are they like?’ 

‘Mournful.’ Boromir gives it some thought. ‘Beautiful, of course, but often bittersweet. Many lovers dying in each other’s arms or in rivers or oceans or being turned into trees or stars.’ 

‘You’ve heard a great many?’ 

‘Some I grew up with, my father and brother have a great love for lore and poetry. Others I’ve heard over the last many months.’ 

Éomer turns his flute around, working on the mouth piece. ‘My cousin taught me,’ he explains. ‘He would carve small figurines from birch and oak. I’ve a few from when I was young.’ 

‘You were close with Théodred?’ 

Éomer tilts his head, a strikingly similar expression to Gríma. And Théoden, when Boromir thinks about it. Which makes sense, given they all are of the same household. Or were, for many years, in Éomer’s case. How Boromir picked up ticks from his father’s head of staff, an old man he’s known since he was thirteen. Everyone shares things with those they travel through life with. 

‘When I was younger,’ Éomer answers at length. ‘But we drifted apart as I grew up. We were very different people and had very different views on what Éomarc needed. What was important, what could wait, how to best approach leadership of our people.’ A guilty shrug. ‘But now I suppose it doesn’t matter. I used to ask him what he was doing, what he was thinking. He was heir to the throne and yet here he was, one-and-forty, unmarried and without a son galavanting around Éomarc as if he were immortal. As if he wasn’t a single arrow or spear blow away from ending his line.’ 

Boromir can well imagine what those probably heated conversations were like. He’s had plenty of them himself. The difference being, he has a younger brother who will marry. Who can fulfill that necessary duty to the family lineage and position. And if he didn’t, or couldn’t, Boromir would bite the bit and do what was needed. 

‘He always said he’d see to it later,’ Éomer continues.  _ ‘There’s enough time for that, _ he’d say. Or,  _ you don’t understand. _ Or something to that extent.’ A slow frown, ‘It was selfish of him. When you’re heir to the throne you can’t afford selfishness.’ 

‘And you?’ 

‘My uncle has a list, though we’ve not discussed it yet. I suspect once we are finished treating with Saruman and return to Edoras it will be brought up.’ Éomer lifts the flute to lips and blows hard, spraying out dust and wood flakes. They slowly float to cover his boots and sparse grass of the river bank. 

‘So,’ Éomer shifts his tone from contemplative to cheerful. ‘Tell me about your journey. You went to see the elves, how was that?’ 

‘Strange.’ 

‘Are they all like your companion?’ 

‘Yes and no. Aragorn tells me that Legolas is a bit odd, even by his people’s standards.’ 

‘He was a great help during the battle. I was glad of his company on the wall.’ 

‘He’s a very capable fighter,’ Boromir readily agrees. Taking up a stick he begins to break it into pieces, idly tossing the smallest into the fire. Giving a bit of a smile he asks, ‘Have you heard of Moria?’ 

‘I have, but not in much detail. It’s an old dwarven mine, right? I heard from — I heard it was cursed.’ 

‘One could say that, certainly. Though not in the way I think most people mean when they say cursed. I didn’t know people this far south would know of it.’ 

‘Oh you know,’ Éomer gives a fluid shrug. ‘Information has a way of trickling down and accumulating.’ 

‘Does it ever. Anyway, I’ll tell you about this cave troll we ran into.’ 

In the small hours before dawn the king calls for the men to ready themselves to ride. During their brief hours of rest, a fog rolled over the land bringing with it a strong odour that reminds Boromir of the dead, dank air of Moria. What is with telling stories and their becoming real, he wonders. How does retelling an adventure resurrect it? Make it manifest in physical form so there in the air is the smell, the texture of the place. In the mouth the taste. In the body, the reactions of that moment. 

Aragorn walks over leading Hasufel and points to the northern horizon. ‘Smoke, from Isengard I shouldn’t wonder. Saruman’s up to something, that’s certain. I’d put money on his being the reason the river’s dry.’ 

Boromir hums agreement as he pulls himself atop Sigegard. ‘Maybe Théoden’s little snake knows.’ 

Aragorn’s face lights up, ‘Little snake.’ 

‘Oh no.’ 

‘I’m adding it to our collection.’ 

‘You really don’t have to.’ 

‘Too late, son of Gondor.’ 

‘He’s not one of us.’ 

Aragorn shrugs. Who said the list of whimsical nick-names need only be members of the Fellowship? ‘Broaden your horizons. The world is our nick-name filled oyster.’ 

Boromir goes to retort when the world darkens. From behind them, down the valley, whispers gather. The same as those in the Deeping Coombe. The ghosting voice of the forest. Boromir exchanges confused looks with Aragorn then searches for Mithrandir sits on Shadowfax with an air of expectation. Near Mithrandir and Théoden is Gríma whose face wears the detached expression of someone who has vacated their body, then there is Éomer, also by the king and evidently spooked. 

Over the ground creeps a shadow darker than the night. Flanking both sides of the river, it rolls steadily towards them. 

‘Draw no weapon,’ Mithrandir shouts, waving for men to put swords away. ‘Steel will not help you here. Be still and it will pass you by.’ 

In the gathering darkness, the whispers grow louder. Sometimes they are interrupted by a howl or a shriek — inhuman and ancient. As the mist gathers it blots out the sky, the earth shakes, the horses whinny and stomp their hooves. 

Then, within the mist, Boromir spies a figure riding what looks to be a horse with a dragon-esque head. The figure itself wears a strange crown and carries a bow. Though just a shadow within shadows, Boromir nudges Aragorn and points to it. 

‘Is that what you saw?’ He whispers. 

‘Maybe.’ 

Turning to look at the other side of the river, Boromir sees a second figure. This one rides an elk and has evident flowing hair, although it too is a shadow within shadows. ‘Or was it that one?’ 

Aragorn twists to look then shakes his head. No, he whispers, there was no hair and no sense of, how can he put it? Goldenness. This shadow here with the hair and the elk makes him think of spring. The other shadow with the dragon-horse reminds him of the thing in the cave: entirely autumnal. 

And, just as quickly as the mist was upon them, it passes, continuing north over the plains towards the unseen shade of Fangorn. 

‘Another riddle for Isengard?’ Théoden asks, dryly. ‘Or does this relate to what we spoke of?’ 

Mithrandir stares north, his mouth pulled into a frown. Absently he murmurs that it’s what they spoke of. Only. he had never thought to see the figure in person. 

Isengard. 

Boromir has always known it to be the wizard’s land. Saruman was given the keys to Orthanc far enough back it was a dim memory. People easily say: the wizard has always been there. The land of Isengard has always been his. There is no one alive who remembers otherwise. 

And the land itself had once been green and fertile. Indeed, it was some of the best earth to till this side of the Snowbourne. But the once rich, black soil is turned to ruin. No trees remain, only thorns, brambles and crawling, sickly plants eeking out their sad existence amongst rocks and spoilt dirt. 

Yes, some fields outside Isengard’s walls are sowed - but not many, and those done are not done well. 

Orthanc itself rises up from behind the black gates, tall and imposing against pale morning sky. Boromir whispers, ‘I think I remember the name meaning something in Rohirric as well as Sindarin.’ 

‘Fanged mountain in Sindarin,’ Aragorn replies. ‘I’m not sure about the Rohirric.’ 

‘Cursed mind,’ is the mirthless reply from Éomer. ‘In an old Eorleden dialect it means cursed mind.’ 

Arriving at the main gates is a shock. What had once been imposing, obsidian walls were in ruins. The fierce, strong gates that were built to withstand the mightiest of sieges lay defeated. The iron hinges are twisted about, the gaping holes where they once connected to the walls glinting shards of wet rock in the early sun. The entire scene reminds Boromir of a town he once saw that had been destroyed by the sea. On a cloudless day, the ocean withdrew from the land leaving fish, muscles, shells exposed. Then, not five minutes later, a tower of water crashed back upon the residents. The walls of the town had chunks missing. The sea wall looked like a child kicked it over. Pieces of rock, of houses, of people and animals were strewn across city streets, gardens, market places. 

The walls of Isengard are the same. And, like that town, there are the scattered remains of former gate, former wall, dead orcs, men, horses, poultry, dogs - what wreckage. 

Curious as to what Gríma must be thinking Boromir searches him out. What must be going through his mind, to see the land of his former master thus destroyed. The former traitor, riding behind Éothain, is motionless, pale, and appears to be taking the entirety of the scene in and yet, not at all. 

In silence, all sit staring at the maimed land and architecture, the rock, the split beams, the wrenched iron, splintered wood. And to think, this could have been Helm’s Deep. This could have been Edoras. If the tides of battle had gone another way. 

Moving forward through the rubble, Boromir sees a thin stream of pipe smoke drifting over a large rock. A jarring moment to smell that familiar scent amongst all of this. Then the sound of movement on the other side of the stone and a figure darts up, with arms spread wide and wearing a large smile. 

‘Welcome to Isengard, my lords.’ 

For Boromir the world drops out from beneath him. 

A second figure stands, cheerfully blowing out a stream of smoke. ‘We’d say Saruman bids you welcome, but that’d be a lie. We certainly do, though. As does Treebeard, who has taken over management of Isengard.’ 

There stand Merry and Pippin with pleased smiles and happy eyes.They clearly take in Théoden, Mithrandir, the Rohirrim. Then they land on Boromir, Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas. Their faces are in turns disbelief and joy. 

Boromir doesn’t think he can move. They are truly alive. To hear it from Mithrandir is one thing, but to see them. To know it with his own eyes. By gods to look upon them. 

The four hunters are off their horses in seconds as Merry and Pippin clamber down the rock. It is a deluge of hugs and much yelling and exclaiming:  _ I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.  _ And,  _ You’re alive! _ And, _ I told you he’d be alive, Merry. _ And,  _ No you didn’t, Pip, I told you that! _

‘I’ve an arrow wound to thank you for,’ Boromir chides. ‘But seeing you alive and well more than makes up for it.’ 

‘Oh you  _ rascals, _ ’ Gimli says, ruffling their hair. ‘You absolute menaces. You led us on a merry chase across all of Amon Hen, Emyn Muil, and Rohan. And yet here you’ve been, feasting! And smoking!’ 

‘Has anyone made it to the Gap, yet?’ Merry asks, giving Mithrandir a cheeky smirk. 

‘We came through part of it,’ Aragorn replies with what can only be described as a sly look. ‘So, at least some of the Fellowship made for the Gap or Rohan. Boromir, your quest is complete. You may rest easy for the remainder of your days.’ 

‘I’m going to turn around and leave for Gondor if you keep this up.’ 

‘We have more important things to discuss,’ Gimli interrupts. ‘Such as: where is the pipeweed?’ 

‘And the wine,’ Legolas adds. ‘I have learned a new way to drink to everyone’s health and I intend to teach you for it is marvellously whimsical.’ 

‘What, you seek to take our well earned plunder?’ Merry asks, feigning insult. ‘We are sat here upon a field of victory and you trot up as if you own the place.’ 

‘Well,’ Théoden laughs. ‘I assume these are the friends you were looking for, Boromir? The lost ones of your company?’

‘They are indeed.’ 

Éomer leans forward and looks at Merry then Pippin then turns and says something to Éothain. Another rider ducks his head over for the conference. Gríma, to Boromir's right, mutters under his breath, ‘The word they’re looking for is Halfling.’ 

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Éomer says to Pippin. ‘But are you holbytlan?’ 

‘We’re hobbits, if you please, my lord,’ Pippin happily replies. 

‘Hobbits!’ Éomer sits back and returns to a quick conference with Éothain and the third rider. 

‘Hobbits,’ Théoden repeats in wonder. ‘Well, I have heard reports of such folk in legends. But none of them do justice to the truth.’ 

Merry bowed then kicked Pippin who quickly copied his cousin. ‘You are gracious, my lord,’ Merry says, standing again. ‘And also bring us a marvel.’ 

‘How is that?’ Théoden asks, smilingly. 

‘We’ve travelled far and through many lands since we left home and never once has anyone known what a hobbit is, until now.’ 

‘My people came out of the north long ago,’ Théoden explains. ‘But you’ve mistaken me. All we know of your people is that you live far away, over many hills and rivers, and that you dwell in holes in sand-dunes. But we have no knowledge of your deeds.’

Éomer adds on, ‘Only that you avoid the sight of men, and it is said that you are able to vanish in a twinkling and you can change your voices to resemble the speech of birds. But I am sure there is more of you to know.’ 

‘Assuredly, my lord,’ Merry replies, dropping down to sit at the edge of the boulder. He pulls out his pipe and strikes a match. ‘I think the most important thing about us is the art of tobacco growing that we have perfected for generations, now. Longbottom leaf was brought to the shire by Tobold Hornblower in 1070, by shire-reckoning, and he grew it in his garden. Now, how he came about it is subject to legend--’ 

‘You don’t know your danger, Éomer,’ Mithrandir interrupts. ‘If you encourage them with undue patience you will sit here until the ruin of the world as they talk at length about the pleasures of the table and doings of their father, their father’s father, their great-grandfather’s father, their ninth cousin several times removed on their mother’s side. (Merry: _There’s no need to go after Lubella like that._ ) Now, Merry, where is Treebeard?’ 

‘Oh I think he’s around on the north side. The other ents are with him, I think.’ 

‘Very good, and did he leave me no message? Or has drink and smoke driven it from your mind?’ 

‘He did,’ Merry replied, tartly. ‘I was coming to it. But I was hindered by questions and interruptions. Treebeard told me that should the Lord of the Marc and Gandalf arrive they are to ride to the northern wall where they will find him and he will welcome you.’ 

‘And the food, Merry,’ Pippin says. ‘Don’t forget the food.’ 

‘Oh yes, Treebeard also said that you will be well fed. And, if I may say so myself, you will eat and drink only the finest for Pippin and I picked it out ourselves.’ 

‘Excellent,’ Mithrandir smiles. ‘That is better. Well, Théoden, we should go. You will learn much, bring whoever you wish of your men. I suspect my own company will remain behind for a while yet.’ 

Théoden motions to Éomer, ‘With me, and Erkenbrand and Gundahar as well. The rest will remain here until called.’ With a bowed head and wave Théoden bid good day to Merry and Pippin. ‘We will speak again soon, I have no doubt. I would like to hear of the deeds of your grandsires as far back as you can remember them and all of their herb-lore.’ Then he and his chosen few, turn and with Mithrandir depart for the northern wall of Isengard. 

‘Well,’ Aragorn says once the others are well gone. ‘The hunt is over and we meet again at last.’ 

‘Does that mean the Four Hunters is no more?’ Legolas asks. 

Gimli, ‘Nah, let’s keep it.’ 

‘Six Hunters?’ Boromir suggests. 

‘We wouldn’t want to ruin your symmetry,’ Merry says. ‘Four Hunters has a nice ring to it, anyway.’ 

‘Six is even, there’s still symmetry,’ comes Gríma very quietly. 

‘Alright,’ Pippin claps his hands. ‘So, we can guess why you have named yourselves the Four Hunters, which is a very fine name and one that I am sure Sam will do a lot with later when he makes up songs for us all. But, tell me, which one of you came up with it? Surely not our grim men from Gondor?’ 

‘Gods, didn’t think I would miss that,’ Boromir says, laughing. ‘But apparently I did. And, uh, I think it was Aragorn. He has developed a keenness for renaming people.’ 

‘No,’ Gimli holds up his hand. ‘You cannot tell them about the nicknames.’ 

‘But I have so many,’ Aragorn says. ‘Turnip, otter --’ 

‘Turnip!’ Merry exclaims. 

‘Otter!’ Pippin echoes. 

‘I am delighted by this. Pip, it looks like we have misjudged our grim men from Gondor. It will have to be the one grim man from Gondor and his mysterious king who likes to bestow nicknames upon his people.’ 

‘Bit long, that,’ Pippin replies. 

‘We’ll work on it.’ 

‘I have a question,’ Legolas interjects over Merry and Pippin’s excited chatter. ‘Are we to eat and drink or ought we to venture into the murky waters of this abysmal place to seek sustenance with Gandalf?’ 

‘Oh yes,’ Merry shoots up. ‘We will bring it out. There is much and everyone can have a good meal.’ 

This is translated by Éothain for the remaining riders who perk up at the mention of food. 

Merry and Pippin jump off their large boulder of choice and gesture to it and several other flat ones. ‘We can picnic here and keep an eye on the main gate, it’s what Treebeard has instructed us to do,’ Merry explains. ‘Make yourselves comfortable, we’ll be back in but a blink of an eye.’ 

And they were gone. Vanished in a twinkling, as Éomer put it. Boromir follows his companions onto a goodly sized rock that was once part of Isengard’s outer walls. Legolas takes off his cloak and spreads it out as a makeshift blanket and Aragorn adds his as well. 

Boromir leans back on his palms and looks skyward to watch the clouds as they drift past, carried on a westerly wind. He doesn’t know what to feel - other than happiness at the reunion. But he thinks there should be something else, perhaps regret at their Fellowship still missing two, perhaps nostalgia for simpler days. He isn’t sure, but he suspects there is something beneath his current cheer. 

Well, he reasons he will search out the word for it later. Aragorn will probably know and if not him, Gimli. 

Merry and Pippin arrive with drinks and pipeweed first, for the former Fellowship and the riders who occupy a neighbouring boulder and are roughhousing each other. Boromir might not speak much Rohirric, but the carousing of soldiers is a universal language. 

Éothain’s stilted Westron can be heard over the noise, thanking Merry and Pippin for their friðu, he falters at the word. Aragorn shouts over, ‘Hospitality.’ Éothain repeats it with a ‘yes, that.’ 

But Pippin says, ‘No, it’s alright. It’s like one of our words, hritha. We understand. It’s hospitality but also more.’ 

They duck back into the guards house that apparently stores their fare. 

Lurking at the edge between the two groups is Gríma who flicks his eyes nervously between them, as if expecting something to happen to him. Boromir thinks he should be the bigger person and invite him over but he finds the man’s company slightly off putting. If only due to the dour looks and dismal world view. 

And Boromir wishes to be happy. He wishes to be in the sun with the beautiful sky and his friends all around. 

Which are things the little snake, as Aragorn has now dubbed him, does not have. Well - mostly the friends. The sky and sun are free for all to enjoy and find goodness in, if they but wish to see it. And gods does he know what it is to be lost in despair so everything becomes cold and pointless and all reactions are barbs and needles. 

But as he goes to offer Gríma a seat, Éothain says something in Rohirric. Gríma starts, there is such surprise on his face, which quickly turns to suspicion. Éothain repeats himself. Makes a motion of  _ come on over _ . The other riders roll eyes and exchange looks, some more unhappy than others, but they do make space. If grudgingly. Gríma does not move, immediately. He sits, frozen, for a few beats. Then, he slowly stands and awkwardly joins the other riders. 

Which is a good thing to see. Boromir thinks that sure, not all the bad in the world can be put entirely right. Not all harms can be undone. But surely, the attempt at healing is worth something. It is not nothing to say: I am willing to come in from the cold and I am willing to try and mend what it is I broke. 

Food now arrives. Then, once both groups have more than enough piled before them, Merry and Pippin seat themselves amongst their friends. They both take out their pipes and Merry asks, ‘So, do we go first or shall you?’ 

‘I vote you,’ Gimli declares, pulling food onto his trencher. ‘We have to eat. You do not for I assume you have already had lunch.’ 

‘We’ve had one yes,’ Pippin agrees. ‘But we can always have a second.’ At that Aragorn plucks up an apple and tosses it over. Pippin rubs it on his waistcoat then, grinning, takes a bite. ‘Right, we’ll start I guess. So, Boromir gets shot and we get picked up by some bad smelling Uruks --’ 

Pippin and Merry start their story. Boromir thinks this is a memory he wants to keep forever. He wants to stitch it into the fabric of his life story so it is always there. Like the needlework of a loved one, it is something secret you can see and know and it brings comfort. Watching them chat, and Aragorn laugh, and Gimli roll his eyes and Legolas looking an approximation of amused, Boromir thinks: You know, it might all be alright. Things might turn out for the best. 

There really is something like hope for us all. And gods, is it a beautiful sight to see. A wondrous thing to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, we are slowly getting to the end of The Two Towers.


	24. The Voice of Saruman

Sitting with the other riders, Gríma cautiously eats, cautiously drinks, waits for the denouement. The inevitable: _we brought you over for a purpose and that purpose doesn’t involve being nice to you._

But it doesn’t come. The riders, save Éothain, don’t speak to him. But, no one is cruel. Éothain stiffly says: ‘What you did in the caves. Good work.’ 

To which Gríma replies, ‘I had nothing to do with it.’ 

And Éothain shrugs. ‘Still, it was well done. I might forget about the fact that you ran away as soon as the battle got heated.’ 

Gríma ducks his head, plays with his knife, nudging fruit around his bowl. Éothain has a similarly heavy gaze to Éomer, though not as piercing. Older than the Third Marshal by six or seven years, there is something softer in his nature. How a stone’s edges will become gentle with time. He is also decidedly more even-keeled. 

‘When was the last time you fought?’ 

‘How do you mean, my lord?’ 

‘I know you’ve been in a battle or two, when was the last one?’ 

Gríma takes up a few grapes and eats them with deliberate slowness. He wonders what Éothain is after. The lord never paid him much mind in the past, but he does take his role as Éomer’s second-in-command seriously and so perhaps thinks it his duty to play peacemaker. 

‘Years and years ago,’ Gríma says at length. ‘I was no more than twenty. It wasn’t my finest hour.’ 

Éothain smiles, sipping his ale. ‘I can imagine.’ 

‘I was never made of the stuff of soldiers.’ 

‘No. Where was it?’ 

‘Border, near Emyn Muil. Uthgar, Thane of the Wold at the time, raised a levy. My eldest brother was needed on the land and so I was chosen.’ Taking up bread Gríma breaks off a piece. He eats a bite then adds, ‘I haven’t much thought about it.’ 

‘Did you run?’ Asked without malice so Gríma answers truthfully: ‘Oh yes, of course. Have you seen the orcs out of the Misty Mountains? Nasty and big. Easily twice my size.’ 

‘Well,’ Éothain sighs, pouring himself more ale. ‘At least you’re consistent.’ 

Gríma thinks that is certainly one way to put it. A born and bred coward is another. He picks at his bread and half-listens as Éothain takes up conversation with Sindrí, one of his fellow men from the southern east-emnet. 

Partway through the meal, Gríma has commandeered wine from the halflings to the enthusiasm of his fellow Éotheod ( _What, do they think we are not lords who wish for wine and not always ale?_ Sindri asked. _I think they thought we preferred ale and mead to wine and were attempting to be polite,_ Gríma replied. _I was joking,_ Sindrí said. _Oh._ ), when Gundahar appears on horseback. The men hail his arrival, asking for news from their lords. 

‘Does Théoden-kunning send word?’ Éothain asks, brushing himself down as he stands. 

‘Sort of,’ Gundahar pulls a rude face. ‘The wizard wants Gríma.’ 

Éothain frowns, ‘For what purpose?’ 

‘A wizard’s purpose. I don’t know, Gandalf didn’t say. Just snapped: _Fetch Wyrmtunga._ _He needs to answer more questions._ ’ 

‘What questions would those be?’ 

The young guard shrugs. He wouldn’t know. Again - Gandalf only said: _Fetch Wyrmtunga._ Or Wormtongue, because he doesn’t speak Éorléden. ‘But I’m with you, Éothain, I’d like to know what Gandalf is up to and what role our little oath-breaker here has to play in it all. Théoden was too forgiving by half.’ 

Gríma stands, takes a last drink of wine, then goes to Stigr saying, ‘Well it is fine luck for me, then, that he is king and you are not.’ 

‘Boil your head, Gríma,’ Gundahar sneers. 

‘Find a new insult, Gundahar,’ Gríma replies. 

‘Just get on your horse.’ 

Being led through Isengard by Gundahar Gríma feels not unlike an errant child. Which rankles and shames so he is torn between glaring at Gundahar and keeping his eyes down on the murky water, the filth contained therein. Gundahar, for his part, is split between appearing noble and glowering at Gríma. 

The gods do test him with Gundahar’s presence. The young lord is smart as a fence post and doesn’t even make up for it with a handsome face. If someone is going to be stupid and belligerent, they should at least add something to the scenery. Gríma, knowing himself to be an ugly man in many ways, at least compensates with intelligence, education, and wit. 

The ride to the north wall takes them alongside Orthanc for a short period causing Gríma’s jaw to clench. His heart hammers. He again feels he is a hunted animal within tower walls with Saruman looming before him, those coal-black eyes, that empty country that is his presence. It is a void, you can pour yourself into it but it will never be full. Gríma wants to be sick off the side of his horse but can’t move. Can’t think. 

Every so often Stigr tosses his head, as if distressed, and Gríma is thankful that at least he survived. Stigr is too fine a horse to die a miserable death in Isengard’s dank mire. 

The first person Gríma notices upon arrival is Théoden in his sun glinting armour. Then there is Éomer holding his helmet under his arm and staring upward into a tree with the same expression he wore upon seeing the Shadow of the Wood. Then, Erkenbrand, watching their arrival. Then, Gandalf. He wears a grey riding cloak over his white robes and so, for the moment, appears as Gríma has always known him: Greyhame, Stormcrow, Lathspell, Riddlespeaker. 

Coming closer he takes in the tree that Éomer seems so enraptured by, moving up the trunk he wonders what is so fearsome and marvelous until he reaches upper branches and the eyes. 

He stares at the eyes. The tree’s eyes stare back. Then, Gríma sees the beard of moss, subtle indications of features such as brow, cheeks, jaw. And now, looking back down the tree he can discern the limbs. 

Gríma’s mouth opens and remains that way as he mimics Éomer in starring with both wonder and horror. 

An ent. 

A childhood myth. 

Something his father told him about to keep him and Brynja from going too deep into Fangorn. A bedbug. An old wive’s tale. 

The ent bends at the waist to peer at Gríma who cannot look away. The eyes of the ent are the dark green of ivy that crawls up water-side trees and rocks in the south-eastern marshes and floodplains of Éomarc. Within the eyes is marshland brown. 

‘ _Hoom,_ so _you_ are Master Wormtongue.’ 

The voice comes slowly from deep within the ent and vibrates Gríma’s soul. He swallows. Can’t think of what to say in response. Can’t think much at all. 

‘Your reputation precedes you,’ the ent continues. 

‘Then I am fearful,’ Gríma hears himself whisper. 

The ent stares into him then straightens with a booming laugh. ‘You are hasty. Perhaps too hasty in your speech. You have not allowed me time to tell you what it is I have heard.’ 

‘I think I can well guess —’ Gríma stumbles over how to address the ent. _My lord_ doesn’t seem to fit. He glides on, ‘Good deeds and news rarely proceed my appearance. Especially of late.’ 

‘ _Hoom,_ ’ the rumbling response. It eats up Gríma’s bones. He wants it to stop. He wants it to never stop. ‘Young Master Gandalf tells me you have met someone most strange.’ 

Gríma shrugs helplessly. 

‘Would you describe him for me?’ 

Gríma does. Wishes everyone would pass the description along themselves so he doesn’t have to keep repeating himself. Surely Gandalf could have explained all of this? And with greater knowledge than Gríma has on the matter.

‘We saw him this morning,’ Éomer says once Gríma finishes. ‘Riding in the mist with the Shadow of the Wood.’ 

Another vibrating _hoom_ followed by a _burarúme._ The air thrums. 

‘That is not good,’ the ent slowly exhales. ‘How came it to be that he was let free to wander the earth?’ 

All eyes turn to Gríma who says his favourite line: ‘I don’t know. I had nothing to do with it.’ 

Because he doesn’t know. Because he is exhausted. Because they are in Isengard and his skin wants to crawl off his body. Because all he can think about is Saruman — the hunter standing over his prey with boar spear in hand. 

‘I can’t remember,’ he says, wincing a fraction at the inadequacy of the words. ‘And what do you mean by let free to wander the earth?’ 

‘You promised him nothing?’ 

‘I made him no vow or oath, if that is what you mean.’ 

‘What was it you gave in exchange for your skills?’ 

Gríma is loath to mention the foal. He is loath to think of Éowulf for that makes him think of Sæwine that overcomes him with shame — shame that he let him die, shame that he was too afraid to do anything, shame that he cowered against Orthanc steps and watched, shame that he was made to —

There are words for what happened but he cannot say them. Not even to himself.

A hooming boom from the ent and Gríma is back in his saddle, on Stigr, there is cool air on his skin. He coughs and says, ‘I uh - I think I was upside for a time. Hung from a tree, I want to say. It comes up in dreams from time to time.’ 

Théoden startles and turns to Gríma with a searching look. Gríma thinks, Oh dear, was that another thing he unintentionally passed along during the last three years of spellwork? 

There are memories, of course. The hazy, gauzy ones of childhood. He tries to pluck one up and to better see it but it soon flies away. He thinks there were many spiders and beetles and hissing insects. He thinks he was given something to drink. He thinks it was at once sweet and meaty. Like mead, but if into it was poured blood. He thinks there was the cave, but also there were trees and maybe the cave had another place it led to that wasn’t the darkness of the heart of the earth. 

An image unfolds: the being who would not share his name crouched on a flat stone watching Gríma with his eyeless, mouthless, noseless face. Gríma danged upside down, barely able to focus for his head was pounding something fierce. 

_If you want true power, you must sacrifice yourself,_ the being said. 

_How do you mean?_ Gríma asked. 

_What do you value most? Sight? Smell? Touch? Taste? What can you not live without?_

_My wit._

_Then cut out your tongue._

But Gríma had not the courage to do so. Just as he had not the courage to complete the other tests and trials the entity suggested, with increasingly sneering amusement. 

At some point in all of this he was let down from the tree and the being pressed his cold, bark-like palm against Gríma’s forehead and everything hurt. The world hurt. It shuddered and twisted and writhed. 

Then it didn’t anymore. 

_You have something, now, do what you will with it._

_What is it?_

_A skill. In Westron it would be called_ magic _but that is a paltry word of little use to any. Seiðr _cræft_ your people would say and that is much closer to the truth. _

_Is that what you meant by true power?_

_No._

_What did you mean, then?_

And the being smiled without smiling. The essence of the expression uncurling in Gríma’s stomach. 

_I have given you something, now you must give me something in return_ , the being said. _Invite me with you when you walk from this cave._

Gríma peered into the dim light which shadowed the entity, leaving much to the imagination. _You may walk out of the cave with me,_ he replied, _but I’m not inviting you to come with me._

_Are you afraid of me?_

_Yes._

_Good. But I suspect you are afraid of many things._

_No,_ Gríma scowled. _I’m as brave as my brothers and my father._

_Foolish. Fear keeps you alive. It is what tells the body it is time to run. Are you ignoring your fear right now?_

Gríma swallowed and shook his head. 

_Foolish._ Then the being lunged forward with an inhuman grow. Gríma kicked himself backward, screaming and knew no more. 

When he woke it was to forest sunlight and a stream, one of the tendrils of the Limlight. Everything was a soft green, the filtered light through the trees. Looking at his hands Gríma saw that they were covered in mud and Éowulf’s blood. He washed them in the cold water. Then, trembling and in shock, he followed the footsteps of the entity and walked out of Fangorn. 

‘Well,’ Gríma says, ‘It wasn’t a vow, but I did say he could leave with me. Now that I think about it.’ 

Gandalf’s eyebrows lift with interest. ‘And did he?’ 

‘I have reason to believe he did. But I don’t really remember.’ 

‘That was it,’ the ent sighs. ‘He requires invitation in order to be freed.’ 

‘Why was he shut in there in the first place?’ Erkenbrand asks with deep concern. ‘We have enough to contend with in Sauron. There is no need to add other, ancient beings to the list.’ 

The ent _hooms_ for a long moment before slowly unwinding his answer: ‘I do not know. Some would call him an old god, some would call him an elemental, others would call him the harvester of hungry grass. All that I know is that he is old and he is other.’

‘Hungry grass?’ Gandalf asks. 'I don't believe I know that one.' 

‘Cursed grass,’ Théoden replies. ‘Patches of grass where, should you walk over it, you will be cursed with insatiable hunger. It can lead a man to do all manner of unnatural things. Least said the better. But, someone trapped this being in a cave?’ 

‘A witch of old. She bound him in a box and made use of his powers. I believe it was she who left him there. But it was long ago, when the earth was young and the world a gladder place.’ 

‘What was her name? We may know of her in our tales and histories.’

‘I cannot remember. She flew like a raven upon a branch of yew and she was hasty. I remember that. Always busy with the comings and goings of the world.’ 

‘And we’re sure this isn’t Béma, or another god? Nor a wight or disír?’ 

‘No, no,’ the ent gently shakes his head. Leaf litter scatters down. ‘I do remember her weaving a mantle for herself in the middle of the woods and she spoke of Béma, as you call him, Oromë as others might know him —’

‘What kind of name is that?’ Éomer whispers to Gundahar. 

‘— and she did tell me once that Béma would sometimes travel with the old one and visit with him to keep him from causing too much mischief. The old one is not evil but, sometimes, from him great harm arises.’ 

‘Do we know what it is he wants?’ The king asks. 

‘His business is his own and I know it not.’ 

Éomer, under his breath, ‘Ominous.’ Catching his uncle’s eye Éomer quiets himself. 

‘Well,’ Gandalf says. ‘I assume there must be a debt to repay, if he was freed, if unwittingly, by Gríma. That would go a ways to explaining the Shadow of the Wood coming to our aid.’ 

‘Er, no,’ Gríma licks his lips, ‘the invitation to leave was repayment for my, uh, skillset.’

‘He is tied to young Master Wormtongue, that is true,’ the ent says. ‘What I do know is, if you die, he must return to the cave. So long as you are alive, he is free.’ 

‘Ah, that’s why the trees,’ Éomer says. ‘Making sure we win the battle helps ensure Wrymtunga remains alive.’ 

The ent _hooms_ then appears to come to the conclusion that this is accurate for he gives several deep nods, further littering those below with leaf matter. It is otherworldly to see this being move, to hear and feel the voice. Gríma wonders if Saruman knew of the ents, that they still resided in Fangorn. Did he know of the Shadow of the Wood? Was he aware of any of this? 

If Saruman was, Gríma doesn’t know how he feels about that. If Saruman was not, Gríma still doesn’t know how he feels. 

‘Now, now,’ the ent hums. ‘I can help you no further. But it is good to know who encouraged the forest on its way south and who brought it home again.’

‘That is just as well,’ Gandalf replies, turning Shadowfax about. ‘We’ve been here a long while and are past due in visiting Saruman.’ 

Gríma does not think it wise to visit Saruman at this time, with defeat a fresh and foul taste in his mouth. Orthanc surrounded by water is an island, a labyrinthian, towering cage, and Saruman the wild animal within. 

As the company approaches the tower they are joined by Lord Boromir and his various acquaintances as well as the remainder of Théoden’s men. They come to rest at the front of Orthanc. 

Whatever slim control Gríma felt he had at the north wall and the foregate is gone. His lungs are bound tight with iron rings, his stomach an endless pit of acid. He wants to crawl out of himself and slink through the water to hide under a rock. Hopefully no one would see him. Hopefully no one would notice the ripples of his movement. 

But there is no time or space or ability to run. So, Gríma holds himself perfectly still as Gandalf calls out for Saruman. If he does not move, maybe he will not be seen. 

No answer. 

‘Beware his voice,’ Gandalf warns all present. ‘Even now, he is powerful and not to be underestimated.’ 

Then, he again calls out and again there is no answer. Gríma does not allow himself to hope that the wizard will not deign to answer the summons. A third call and this is the one that draws Saruman to a balcony above the main doors. 

‘Well?’ Saruman’s soft voice descends. ‘Why must you disturb my rest? Will you give me no peace by night or day?’ 

It is a voice of mildness, a gentle man who has been wronged and now suffers unjustly. There is no cornered animal that wishes to flee. There is no cold disdain or cruelty from Gríma’s last days here. Which were but three days ago? Four days ago? He doesn’t know. 

Over, on the other side of the group, the dwarf prince whispers: ‘Alike yet so different.’ 

Gríma wants to laugh at hearing this comparison. Oh yes, they are very alike, Saruman and Gandalf. He supposes they must therefore have their differences, too. But he can’t think how. He can’t think at all. 

‘Come, now, let us be civil,’ Saruman says. ‘Several of you I know by name: Gandalf, Théoden…’ Gríma waits for his name but it does not follow. ‘Gandalf, I know you too well to think you have come for council or to repair our broken trust. But Théoden-king! Son of Thengel the thrice-renowned. Worthy son of the House of Eorl, why have you not visited with me sooner? And as a friend? Much have I desired to see you, mightiest of kings of the western lands. Especially in these dark times, when too often great lords are beset on all sides by evil council.’ 

Saruman glances at Gandalf then Gríma. ‘Indeed,’ he continues. ‘Had you come to me, I would have warned you of the viper you once held close to your bosom. A viper who has done us both egregious harm. All the injuries and misunderstandings that have befallen us rest entirely at his feet. And even now, despite all that has come between us (the workings of that parasitic _worm_ ), I would save you. There is not but ruin and death ahead of you. 

‘This road you have chosen is an evil one. It may appear, at the moment, to be the just and honourable route, but it will lead your people to their doom. Your land will become nothing but blighted wasteland. You are a good and generous king. I know that of you. Would you not come up and take council with me? I know a way forward that may yet save us all.’ 

No one speaks. At the silence Gríma manages to raise his eyes to the scene: there is his king, sitting tall upon his horse. And above, bathed in white robes and white light, as if he were a shining beacon, stands Saruman. The same long face, the same dark, solemn eyes. 

Gríma’s jaw clenches. His stomach is a tumultuous ocean. His lungs want to hollow out. Fingers grip reigns and dig into his palms. As quickly as he looks up, he looks away. 

Around him, soft murmurs of approval of what Saruman said come from Théoden’s men. The most loyal of his riders, the ones he could say: _ride off that cliff in full battle array_ and they would do as asked. All are spellbound, captive to the beautiful voice. 

Gods, there really is no future save one of ruination, Gríma thinks. This is the terrible thing about Saruman. He isn’t _wrong._ They are going down to death and destruction. Gods, why did he leave, again? Why did he think to return to his king? Why did he think there was the possibility of a future? Why are they even trying? Won’t that make Sauron more furious when he inevitably wins? As when a child pushes back against a parent, the repercussions increase with each moment of rebellion. Why is no one listening? Why do they all think there is hope when there isn’t any? There is nothing before them but death. And pain. And horror. 

Stigr shakes his head, dislodging a fly that landed on his ear. At the same time, Éomer reaches over and grips Gríma’s forearm with a stern look.

‘No trees,’ he whispers in Éorléden. 

‘No trees,’ Gríma quietly echoes. 

‘Look here,’ Gimli’s voice strikes up, rousing all present. ‘The words of this wizard are upside down. When he says he’ll offer help what he means is ruin; when he says the word salvation what he means is death. _That_ is plain.’ 

‘Peace,’ Saruman says, and for a brief moment his voice is not honey. ‘I pray you, Gimli son of Glóin, let me speak with the Lord of the Marc, my neighbour and once, I had thought, my friend. What say you, Théoden-king? Will you have peace with me and accept my freely offered aid? United, we can face these evil days and repair the injuries rendered by untrustworthy, insidious counsellors. Shall we stand together to ensure that our lands flower?’ 

Gríma continues to dig his fingers and reign into his palms, his left hand stinging enough to remind him that he has a body. The woman who stitched his palm closed might be annoyed if he ruins her work but he doesn’t much care. 

‘My lord uncle,’ Éomer says in Éorléden. ‘Pardon my bluntness and rude language, but this is horseshit.’ Then, in Westron: ‘Have we ridden forth from victory, only to stand amazed by an old, lying dragon with honey on his tongue? He speaks fairly, to be sure, but so would a trapped wolf speak to hounds. Saruman wouldn’t know an honest word if it bit him in the face.’ 

Gríma doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry or be sick off the side of his horse. 

‘If we are speaking of poisoned words, what shall we say of yours, young serpent?’ snaps Saruman. ‘You had best keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.’ Abruptly he stops, smiles, and returns his voice to the rich cambric of seduction. ‘But come, now, Éomer son of Eomund. You are the son of kings. Are we to speak to one another as if we are little better than drunkards in a tavern? You are honourable and brave. But your valour is in your arms and the wise speak only of what they know. Therefore, slay whom your lord names as enemies and be content. Meddle not in policies you do not understand.’ 

A delicate pause. 

‘But maybe, if you become king,’ Saruman gives Gríma a lingering look, ‘you will find that you must choose your friends with care. You have won a battle, but not a war - and the battle itself was won only with unreliable help. The Shadow of the Wood is wayward and senseless. You may find it at your door next. And this time, not offering aid.’ 

Éomer opens his mouth, clearly ready to fight, and Gríma hurriedly whispers: _Not the time, my lord._ But Éomer is already sneering, ‘You tell me that the wise speak only of what they know. That is wisdom indeed that the wise themselves ought to take heed of. Comment not on things you don’t understand, wizard. Your speeches are beautiful, to be sure, but empty. I had come expecting substance, to learn something of use from you. But all I have seen are the worthless flailings of a defeated old man. There is nothing in your mind worth knowing, and if there is, it is too late. Your pride and arrogance have so corrupted you that whatever greatness of wisdom and knowledge you may have had has become no better than dust. And do you know what, Saruman? I pity you. I feel sorry for you. When I think of what you once were, what you could have been, compared to what you have become? _Pitiable._ ’ 

Well, Gríma thinks distantly, Éomer went straight for the kill. 

A brief flash of fire in Saruman’s eyes. Gríma marvels at Éomer’s relative calm. The lord is angry, he is itching for a fight, but he does not fear Saruman. There is a steadiness beneath his flare of wrath. Is there envy for this stalwartness in the face of the white wizard? Perhaps. All Gríma can think to do is not move, remain small, hope Saruman takes no notice of the little, inconsequential worm. 

‘Those are bold words from someone so young and lacking knowledge, insight and experience,’ Saruman hisses. Éomer smirks. ‘You know nothing of the powers that exist in this world. You know nothing of what I am capable of and you are throwing away my offer of aid without due consideration. Foolish. And, if you think to assume that one favourable deed means the Shadow of the Wood is on your side — well, that alone plainly demonstrates your lack of understanding.’

Éomer continues smirking which causes Saruman’s hackles to rise which, in turn, makes Gríma want to shrink into his saddle. 

‘Let us just say that I’ve little reason to fear the Shadow of the Wood,’ Éomer scoffs. ‘What you’ve done to earn its ire, well, that is your problem. Do not presume that because the forest hates you it therefore hates all mankind. It is not the men of the Marc who cut it down.’ 

Saruman’s lips curl into a vicious expression. Turning to Théoden he attempts to return to a calm and conciliatory tone. ‘As I said, Théoden-king, there are serpents amongst those you hold dear. And serpents make friends with other serpents. I would not think to cast aspersions upon your house, indeed it is painful for me to say anything against such a noble family. But for your own good I am saying these things so that I may help save you and your people from further treachery. Some of which may be closer to home than you would wish.’ 

‘Treachery,’ Éomer laughs. ‘Me? Hardly. And that is a fine sentiment coming from you, since you are the one who sowed the seeds of deceit.’ 

‘I did nothing of the kind. But such words are to be expected from a man who has done very well for himself out of the tragic death of his cousin.’ 

Éomer sucks in a breath, the steady calm of earlier now disturbed. A stone named Théodred will always cause ripples. But whatever it is Éomer wishes to fire back he swallows in favour of muttering, ‘Murdering assassin.’ Switching to Éorléden he says to Théoden, ‘He speaks lies, my lord. Let us be done with this.’ 

‘What?’ Saruman says. ‘Am I to be called a murderer because valiant men have fallen in battle? If you go to war needlessly — and advisors who are young and hot tempered are always ready to take up the sword, and cold tempered advisors who care little for the lives of your people will happily sacrifice them for their own gain — but in war men will always be slain. If I am a murderer then so too is the House of Eorl stained with murder. By that logic the king’s own hands are as soiled as the worm’s. But that is not something I believe of myself, nor of you, good king Théoden. You and I, we know better. So I ask again: can we not have friendship? Can we not have peace?’ 

No one moves. Eyes now rest on Théoden. Gríma half expects Gandalf to intercede but he does not. No, he sits patiently on Shadowfax, a skald waiting for his turn to be called into the song. 

Éomer’s eyes are storms and his frustration palpable. A glance at Gríma, who has no idea what his own face wears, and there is a flicker of sardonic humour. As if to say: _Trust our luck to be lumped together by Saruman._

‘Peace,’ Théoden speaks at last, voice thick and foggy. It occurs to Gríma that it must be strange for Théoden to hear the voice, to see the face of the man who, not a week ago, took up residence in his body. To see the possessor, the invader, in flesh and bone. 

‘We will have peace,’ Théoden picks up strength and clarity with each word. ‘Yes, we will have peace. We will have peace when you and all your works have perished. You are a liar, Saruman. You are a manipulator. A corruptor of men’s hearts and minds. You take goodness and twist it into something foul. You hold out your hand and think that I will see peace and prosperity in it? That I will see safety and security? I now understand why others may have done so, and maybe, once-upon-a-time I too might have thought the same. You have pretty words, Saruman, and we men of the Marc know well the power of words. But your hand? I see it for what it is: a claw of Morder, cold and cruel. 

‘There is only one way forward for peace and that is when you have answered for what you have done. For your torches in the Westfold and the children that lie there dead. For Háma, who lies slain. When you hang from a gibbet at your window for the sport of crows — _then_ I will have peace with Orthanc. I may well be the lesser son of greater sires, but I do not need to lick your fingers.’ 

Théoden’s voice is a fair one, this Gríma knows. He has heard many a speech, many an opening of ceremonies, feasts, offerings to the gods and wights. There is a melodiousness to it and a depth rich as Éomarc’s land. But such is the power of Saruman that in his speech Théoden sounded like a raven’s screech to the songbird of the wizard. 

Leaning over the rails Saruman sucks in a breath, his eyes are filled with such hate, such disdain and rage. The calm, charming man vanishes leaving behind fury. 

‘Gibbets and crows,’ he snarls. ‘Pathetic. You have become a sad, old fool Théoden. What is the House of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and their brats roll around on the floor with dogs? You all have escaped your own gibbets for too long but the noose is coming for you. Mark me, you will all hang by the reigns you use to lead your beastly horses.’ A shuddering moment as Saruman halts, closes his eyes and regains himself. ‘I will never know why I have the patience to speak with you and your little band of gallopers. I have offered you a state beyond your merit and wit; I have offered you a road to safety and prosperity but you have not the intelligence to see it. What an impotent old man you have become. Shameful. Shameful. But so be it, you have made your choice. Go back to your huts and your beasts. There is no offering salvation and civilization to those who will not see it.’

A breath. In and out. 

In the sky, a bird cries and another answers. There is wind, it makes the flood waters shift and bump against Orthanc, ruined iron works, Stigr’s legs. 

The two wizards are now exchanging words. There is a crack, a fiery cry from Saruman. Gríma thinks, Oh dear, Gandalf broke his staff. And he waits to feel something but it doesn’t come. 

His fingers, however, slowly relax and no longer dig into his palm. Théoden is saying something, the company is moving away from Orthanc and Stigr follows along, for Gríma has given his horse no command.

Then, they are past the foregate and by a fallen stone covered with Saruman’s insignia. It lies broken, in the middle of the road. 

‘The ents overlook nothing,’ Gandalf remarks. 

Gríma stares at it. The white hand is shattered. What remains of it, marred with dirt.

‘Well, that’s done and dusted,’ Gimli says as Legolas rides alongside Gríma. The company is heading south, making for the Fords of Isen. ‘Must be strange to see your old master treated thus?’

‘Yes,’ Gríma says, still feeling adrift. ‘I suppose it is, my lord. Granted, ongoing animosity between wizards fighting for the head seat of their order is not something I’m overly familiar with.’ 

‘Best leave it that way, lad. Be mindful of wizards for they are subtle and quick to anger.’ 

Gríma lets out a hollow, laughing _Yes_. 

Gimli cautiously eyes him. ‘You made the right choice, leaving there.’ 

‘It’s worked out so far.’ 

‘Even if it hadn’t, and we were all lying dead at Helm’s Deep, or worse, it would still have been the right choice.’ 

‘I fail to see that logic, my lord.’ 

‘For your spirit,’ Gimli thumps his chest. ‘A place like that, a man like Saruman, it drains away your humanity (for lack of a better word). That situation, it takes your spirit, your sense of self and ability to care about the world and —’ he floats a hand up to indicate vanishment. 

‘I’ve never been very strong in that trade,’ Gríma can hear his testiness. ‘But my sister would agree with you.’ 

‘Then your sister is wise and you’re being foolish.’ Gimli reaches down to saddle bags and pulls out a flask. ‘Speaking of spirit, want a sip?’ 

‘Fire water,’ Legolas happily chimes. ‘For it is clear as water but burns like embers. We have it not in Mirkwood but I am interested in learning more about its crafting.’ 

‘The art of distilling,’ Gimli says. ‘I think it one of the best inventions of my people.’ He takes a drink then hands it to Gríma. 

Gríma swallows a mouthful. Coughs. Takes a second swig then hands it back. ‘Water of life,’ he says. ‘That’s what it’s called out east.’ 

‘Ah, so you’ve had it?’ 

‘A few times. We don’t distill in Éomarc, only brew and ferment. But I’ve had similar liquors in Gondor, and when eastern merchants come through.’ 

‘So, if you weren’t strong in the trade of caring about the world, what made you leave?’ 

‘I’m very good at caring about myself,’ Gríma shrugs. ‘There was a moment where I thought: if I am to die, I would rather die swiftly and painlessly than in drips and drabs at Saruman’s leisure. I dislike suffering and know Théoden-kunning to be honourable. If he didn’t kill me outright, which as my weregild would have been entirely reasonable, then I’d be treated fairly.’ With a nasty sneer, ‘I hedged my bets, my lord. Crawled back to the master who would treat me better, like a hound on its stomach with tail between legs. But better a cur than a worm.’ 

Gimli doesn’t reply and Gríma begins to think the conversation is over, which he would be glad of, when the dwarf prince suddenly says: ‘Don’t refer to yourself as an animal. Don’t ever do that. And don’t allow others to do it to you.’ Then, he taps Legolas’ back and declares that they owe Merry and Pippin a description of Lorien since neither Aragorn nor Boromir did Lady Galadriel justice. 

Legolas twists around to face Gríma, ‘Come, listen. If you wish to hear of elves then you should hear of Lothlórien. It is the fairest land of my people. And Lady Galadriel is the fairest and fiercest of our leaders.’ 

And oh Gríma wishes to. He wants to hear everything there is about elves, but he cannot bring himself to accept so ducks his head and says he wouldn’t wish to intrude on their gathering. Friends being rejoined after a long separation require space. 

Legolas shrugs, declares he would be welcome, before breaking into song and riding to join the others of his company. The elf sings a cheerful melody, full of late summer days when the world is warm and the grass smells sweet, peppered with the purple and red wildflowers that bloom from July through to autumn. 

Dusk is falling when Gríma finds himself alongside Éomer and begins to fret. Conversations with Éomer are always tense and full of too much meaning. Once upon a time they were able to discuss things like weather and the state of the roads, but that was before the treason began. A different world, looking back on it. Gríma believes that he was much the same person as he is now, only, the world around him was shaped differently. 

At some point hope went away. And he despaired. And he felt passed over in favour of idiots like Gundahar. And the southern sky over Mordor grew more and more ominous. Shadows had crept back into the world well before he was born, but in the last ten years oh had they grown. 

Éomer greets him with a perfunctory nod and stern face. ‘We are rid of him for now. Saruman, that is.’ 

‘Indeed, my lord.’ 

‘I thought you were either going to run away or try and throw a knife at him,’ Éomer adds. ‘There were a few moments there where I really couldn’t tell which way you were going.’ 

‘Running away, surely, my lord.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Éomer’s face softens a fraction into wry amusement, ‘I’ve seen you pull a knife.’ 

‘There were extenuating circumstances in that instance, I assure you.’ 

‘Wasn’t he a cousin?’ 

‘Yes, my lord. But as I said, extenuating circumstances.’ 

Éomer’s brow knits close as he looks at Gríma with that blasted heavy stare of his then down to Stigr. The dun-blue coat catches light of the fading sun something pretty. He is not Sæwine, but Gríma thinks Stigr a worthy horse. 

‘Should I ask?’ 

‘My lord?’ 

‘That’s not Sæwine.’ 

‘No, my lord, this is Stigr. He is a good horse.’ 

‘All horses are good.’ 

‘That is true, my lord.’ 

Éomer waits. Ahead of them, a long peel from a trumpet signals that they will be halting to camp in an hour. 

‘Sæwine...’ Gríma stares at Stigr’s mane. The movement of muscles in his neck. The way the bridle fits, how the straps for the breastplate lay over shoulders. 

‘I assume he’s died.’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ 

‘I’m sorry.’ 

Gríma somberly accepts this. Éomer goes on to say that Stigr is a Dunlander horse to which Gríma agrees yes, yes he is a Dunlander horse. Then Éomer says, ‘Dunlanders worked for Saruman, or were at least allied with him while it suited them. I assume Stigr was your means of escape.’ 

Gríma nods. 

‘Was it Saruman?’ 

Gríma holds his hand up and tilts it from side to side; a gesture long ago borrowed from Théoden. 

‘Saruman’s orders?’ 

Gríma nods. 

‘I know you have words, it would be helpful if you used them.’ 

Gríma can't, so doesn’t. Éomer sighs, saying that he’s trying to work out Gríma’s motivations for leaving the wizard’s employment. Gríma doesn’t want to have this conversation but Éomer will not budge and so Gríma says the same as he did to Gimli: ‘I didn’t wish to die slowly, my lord. I decided that if I were to die, if someone was going to sever my head from my body it might as well be my king.’ 

Éomer’s still looking at him with his very brown eyes that Gríma cannot meet so he watches the skyline, the southern shadows of the White Mountains. The open plains of the Marc are soft blues and greys of nightfall. 

‘I don’t believe you,’ Éomer says. Gríma hears himself exhale through teeth. An elongated hiss. ‘That is, I don’t believe that to be your sole motivation. I believe that you did not want to suffer; I believe that Saruman reneged on his promises, whatever they may have been —’

‘Nothing interesting. I’m a relatively simple man when all is said and done.’ 

‘My sister would call you banal.’ 

Gríma isn’t sure how to respond to that. 

Éomer continues, ‘I believe you’re a coward. But, I also believe you have some pride and dignity. Deeply buried, perhaps even forgotten, but it’s there nonetheless.’ 

‘I fail to see how this is related to my returning?’ 

‘My uncle said, _you would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast_.’ 

Gríma continues to stare at the distant mountains. He waits for the inevitable followup of his own animalistic future. Snake on its belly; worm on the ground; a dog eating off dirt — 

His mind stutters. How it does when he wishes to relocate himself. Project his head, his consciousness, somewhere else. 

Éomer’s voice cuts through: ‘I think you wanted to avoid something similar. You wanted to be free of Saruman, of the bargain you made that had gone so afoul, so you returned.’ 

‘Yes.’ Gríma’s voice sounds outside of himself. 

‘Which means you must have seen something worth returning for. Or else, why not run off to a place where no one knows you? What did you see? When you thought of Éomarc, what did you see?’ 

‘Nothing. I saw nothing.’ 

‘Nothing?’ Éomer’s disbelief is palpable. 

‘Nothing I can remember.’

‘Don’t remember or don’t want to admit?’ 

Gríma opens his mouth but there is no answer forthcoming. He dips his head so chin tucks against tunic collar. A second trumpet call rings out and Gríma’s mind settles back into itself. It still skitters and stutters around thoughts but it no longer hangs ten feet above them. 

‘Why do you wish to know my motives for return, my lord?’ Gríma asks once he has gathered himself. 

‘I’m determining something. What happened, exactly, in Orthanc?’ 

Gríma shakes his head and studies his saddle pommel, his hands. Which are dirty, the bandaging around his left palm shows blood has seeped through. He is not surprised by this. 

‘Very well,’ Éomer sighs. ‘I won’t ask anymore.’ 

Gríma apologizes, for something to say more than anything else. Éomer dramatically rolls his eyes. Gríma purses his lips and thinks the lord is being antagonistic on purpose. It is Éomer’s way, Gríma grouses, to come in and _needle-needle-needle._

But — a momentary falter in this line of thinking — he was sort-of kind back at Orthanc and there appeared no ulterior motive. Just Éomer being honourable, or something. Gríma thinks about Háma. How he mispriced the man then swallows the sour retort that was edging its way out of his mouth. 

‘Look,’ Éomer sighs. ‘I’m just going to say that I don’t think you a good man, Gríma son of Gálmód. Not at the moment, at least. But, you returned before you knew Saruman had lost, which isn’t nothing. And I firmly believe you saw _something_ when you thought of Éomarc, though you deny it. So, if you saw something that made it possible to leave, not easy I understand now I’ve seen Saruman in action, that is not without meaning. And you warned us, and you tried to fight, though you ran away for a bit, but you brought us trees —’

‘My lord,’ Gríma interjects, ‘what are you trying to say?’ 

‘That you’re not a good man, right now, and you’re not very nice, sometimes, but I think there’s hope for you.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

‘And you disagree with me. I know that face. Well, that’s up to you. I’ve nothing to gain from telling you this, if that will help with your overly suspicious mind.’

Gríma scowls with a graceless _thank you._ Then, he relents. Tries to be conciliatory with: ‘You managed Saruman well, my lord. Better than I was ever able to.’ 

Éomer’s face is a portrait of confusion that morphs into suspicion which further turns into something like pride. ‘Thank you, high praise coming from you.’ 

‘Not terribly high, I was only ever good and ensuring —’ Gríma stops short of saying: ensuring he wouldn’t be hurt. Because that is a lie. So he changes tact, ‘I was only ever good at ensuring some form of mild complacency. Which isn’t what was needed at that moment.’ 

‘Éothain suggested maybe next time I shouldn’t call someone’s speech _horseshit._ ’ Said quite loftily. The third marshal then drops back to his normal cadence: ‘Saruman didn’t understand that, did he?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘Oh, good.’ Éomer coughs, drums a beat on saddle pommel then says, ‘well, good evening’ before he rides off, up towards the king and Erkenbrand. Gríma watches his lazy cantor that slows upon arrival. Inhaling, he wipes a hand over his face. He wonders what the sweet gods that conversation was. The world is upside down, all days are inverted, he does not think he knows what he is doing anymore. Adrift, clutching at anything that floats. Or trying to. 

A third trumpet peel and the company comes to a rest in a dip in a field. As the night before, a quick camp is set up with small fires and bed rolls laid out to catch a few hours of sleep. Gríma, wandering to find a spot close enough to a fire for warmth but not enough in the way to attract attention, spies Gandalf and Boromir speaking in a quiet yet tense manner. 

Slowing down, Gríma loiters in the shadow cast by several horses.

‘Is what Saruman said about Gondor true? That the last several months have been particularly dire?’ He hears Lord Boromir ask. 

‘Most probably. Or close enough.’ 

‘I’m leaving — no, Mithrandir, I’m not going to wait.’ 

Something Gríma can’t make out then Gandalf’s voice becomes clear again, ‘—but he won’t ride with you.’ 

Boromir turns and walks away. Gríma thinks the conversation over when the lord reappears with the ranger-king in tow. ‘I’m leaving,’ he repeats. 

The ranger-king doesn’t appear pleased about this. Nor does Gandalf. Gríma thinks Boromir is being very reasonable. 

Gandalf: ‘Sauron thinks the ring is here — either with Saruman or Théoden or you, Boromir.’ 

‘As you’ve said before.’ 

Holding up a hand the conversation pauses as Gandalf steps aside to speak with Théoden who has come up, leaving Aragorn and Boromir standing alone. 

The ranger-king asks in a low tone, ‘Do you trust me?’ 

‘I would feel better had I an answer,’ Boromir replies. ‘You’ve not given me once since Lorien. I’m leaving, are you coming with me?’ 

But Gandalf returns before Aragorn can answer. 

‘As I was saying, Sauron will react swift and fast if he knows Aragorn is here, secrecy is our greatest friend —’ Gandalf pauses. Says something Gríma cannot hear before guiding Boromir and Aragorn away to hold council elsewhere. As the wizard departs he looks over his shoulder and meets Gríma’s eyes. Gríma smiles then turns around and resumes his quest to find somewhere suitable to sleep.

Lying on his back, Gríma watches the stars. Then watches clouds cover the stars. He wants to sleep but his mind whirls in circles. Mostly because several mysteries are suddenly solved. Namely: why was Saruman moving so fast all of a sudden? Because he was after the ring of power and didn’t want Sauron to know before he had secured his position. Why has Gandalf shown up with Isildur’s heir? Because Isildur’s bane is somewhere and presumably he has plans for it. What was Boromir’s riddle about from last September, which the lord kindly shared during his brief stay in Edoras? All of this. 

He muses through how events must have unfolded. The rings was, presumably, in Rivendell as of last September. But it is no longer there, that is evident. Someone was carrying it south. Boromir and his companions were seeking the two hobbits who were apparently kidnapped by Saruman’s forces. Saruman was after the ring. Therefore, the hobbits have the ring. Or had it. Boromir and his compatriots must have been a part of the company involved in whatever plan it is Gandalf has concocted.

So, where is the ring now? 

Useless wonderings, for wherever it is, it isn’t here. 

Closing his eyes Gríma tries to sleep. He counts, to settle his mind. And it works. Until his body suddenly tenses. His eyes fly open. He waits for something to occur but there is only the sound of fires, low voices of men talking, knickers and snuffles of horses, crickets. 

In the sky, clouds have thickened. An easterly wind blows in. Gríma sits up, looking around in consternation. But all seem calm. Yet he can’t help thinking that something is going to happen. Something is wrong. 

Suddenly, a shadow falls over the camp. A scream rips through the air. Gríma freezes where he sits, hands gripping his riding coat that had served as makeshift blanket. 

Men shout. The horses are frantic. Gríma stares forward, into the dark. He thinks, Not again. This can’t be happening again. 

A hand on his shoulder and he looks up to see the ranger-king, ‘We have to go. Nazgûl.’ 

And Gríma is up. He is on Stigr. Everyone is riding. Gandalf is shouting something. Above them, a winged creature circles. The air becomes desperately cold. The Nazgûl shrieks a second time. It tears down Gríma’s spine. He knows this sound. He wants to curl up and hide. 

But that wouldn’t save him because the Nazgûl do not see. But they do smell. They hunt by the scent of blood and fear. And their voices are shards of glass embedded in the skin. 

You do not run from the Nazgûl. You do not fight the Nazgûl.

The winged beast makes another circle around the riders before flying north, taking the shadow and the clouds and the cold with it. 

Gandalf slows his horse and the company follows his lead. ‘The dark lord is moving faster than I expected. Boromir, you were right. We ride now.’ 

Boromir looks to Aragorn for a silent conversation. 

‘No,’ Gandalf says as Aragorn goes to speak. ‘You remain with Théoden. We’re going to split the dark lord’s attention between Saruman, Théoden and Boromir. Understood?’ 

Both men nod. 

‘I want to play the card of Isildur’s heir last,’ the wizard continues. ‘Come south with Théoden.’ 

Then, with a rapid farewell, Gandalf spins Shadowfax around. 

Boromir to Aragorn, ‘Tell me. You must.’ 

‘Yes,’ Aragorn says. ‘For better or worse. Yes.’ 

Utter relief covers Boromir’s face. To Théoden he says, ‘I’m calling on the Oath. Come when you are able.’ With farewells to his remaining companions Boromir rides into the night. A dark horse and figure mirroring the light of Shadowfax and Gandalf. 

Éomer is the first to move after Gandalf and Boromir’s sudden departure. Taking his uncle’s arm they ride off from the others a short ways for a private conference. Gríma wishes to relax but his muscles remain taut and he waits for the Nazgûl to reappear. To swoop in, land, and pick them off one by one. 

Gríma rips his eyes away from the sky to watch Éomer and Théoden talk. There is some gesticulating on the young lord’s side. Théoden is determining his response to this call on the Oath, Gríma thinks. He is determining what Éomarc will look like, what Éomarc’s relationship with Gondor will be, should they live. Should Éomarc exist as it currently does in the months and years to come. 

In the midst of the conversation Théoden’s gaze moves from his erstwhile nephew over to watch Aragorn with careful consideration. Then it drifts to Gríma who cannot hold his king’s gaze so looks away. Down to his hands before he swings it up to the sky, the winking stars, the distant clouds of Mordor. Around them are burned lands of the Westfold. Grass that was once alive, nothing now but cinders. 

New grass comes after fires, though. The world will be altered, lives lost that cannot be brought back, there are wounds that gape open a maw of some terrible beast. But grass still will grow. 

Gríma takes all of this in: his king riding back, Éomer still hurriedly talking, the men expectantly waiting, the burnt grasses, the wide open sky. The biggest sky in Middle Earth. And he feels something in his chest he cannot name. An emotion that is not shame, is not sorrow — but it’s _something_. It is heavy and deep, like the roots of the mountain curling into earth. 

‘Well?’ Erkenbrand asks when Théoden arrives at the company. ‘Are we to answer Gondor’s call?’ 

Gríma breathes in the keen March air and waits for the king’s answer that will determine all their futures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to say that all good portions of the Voice of Saruman confrontation are from Jolkien Rolkien himself. I borrow *really* heavily for that scene because you know, it's so well done. Master politician act happening there with Saruman et al. 
> 
> Second, thank you all so much for coming along on this ride! We are officially done with The Two Towers. What a time. 
> 
> Give me a bit to recoup and uh you know, start writing ROTK, and we will be on to that - probably in the new year. 
> 
> Thank you again - to all my readers, and especially the commentors, I look forward every day to reading them <3
> 
> I love you all - happy yule and may 2021 be bright (and gods help us, may we all *stop* living in interesting times).


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